


Missing In Action

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mycroft is a bastard, Mycroft's Meddling, PTSD, Protective Mycroft, Psychological Trauma, Violence, War, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 187,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has taken up a military contracting position that lands him back in Afghanistan, believing Sherlock dead and gone. Sherlock is at the end of his efforts to bring down The Web when a tragedy happens on the battlefield. Can they save one another?</p><p>This is a gratuitous festival of hurt/comfort and angst. Be warned.</p><p>[It's been a year since we started writing together. This was one of our first real attempts at fic. This story is now undergoing the heavy edits it needs.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock’s phone vibrated against his hip, a single pulse; that would be Mycroft, texting, _again_. He growled under his breath and snatched the mobile out of the clip, too distracted right now for his incessant meddling. His eyes darted away from his primary focus to swiftly read the message.

_Call. John’s gone back. - MH_

It took longer than Sherlock would later care to admit for him to understand Mycroft's meaning. He'd prepared for any number of scenarios after his feigned death regarding John's potential reactions. As ever, John was proving to be nearly impossible to anticipate. Now, due to Sherlock's own miscalculations, he was going back _there_ , back to where he'd been shot, where the fabric of his night terrors had woven itself around his mind and haunted him in the small hours. Sherlock's fingers flew over the screen as he replied, glancing up frequently to keep tabs on the pair he was tracking. 

_Quite engaged at the moment, brother. The military will never accept him back into service after his injury, don’t be an idiot. SH_

He pocketed the phone as he kept his eyes locked to the seedy pair he was in silent pursuit of, hot brick at his back as he kept to the shadows. A glint of light caught his attention in the darkness; the reflection off the muzzle of a poorly concealed weapon. His phone vibrated against his hip, a steady rhythm now; Mycroft had given up texting, calling him instead.

“What _is_ it, Mycroft?” Sherlock hissed as he answered the call, eyes locked on his targets. He could not afford to lose them after the days he'd wasted in his efforts to track them, one dead lead after the other.

“Civilian contract. He’s already there, Sherlock. Last I knew he was in Bagram, talk of moving him further north. Perhaps if you would give up this ridiculous notion of toppling the empire all on your own and reveal yourself, he'd be inclined to return before harm comes to him.” 

Sherlock cursed under his breath at his brother, crouching to give chase now that the men looked ready to move. “ _Fix it_. Flag him, pull his orders, something, anything. You get him home Mycroft, _now._ ” Sherlock went silent before sounds of a scuffle preceded the scattering crack of a gunshot. Mycroft heard Sherlock shouting over the line just before it went dead.

Mycroft carefully set his phone down between his elbows and sighed, digging his fingers into his temples. He’d already attempted to drag John Watson home. It had been impossible to do so without actively harming John’s good name and stellar service record, which were lengths Mycroft was unwilling to go; not with Sherlock so close to returning. John Watson was a grown man, he could make his own decisions. Mycroft was quite comfortable meddling in Sherlock's life in such a manner, given his tendency to self-destruct. He'd no justification to carry on in such a way with John. He shook his head. The best he’d be able to manage was limiting John’s movements to the relatively safer areas of Afghanistan and hope for the best until Sherlock returned.

\---

“How’s Molly?” John asked over the crackling line, stepping out of the way from the sudden bustle of dusty men returning from the wire. The fighting had escalated, leaving him far too busy most days to even think of calling home. He plugged his ear and strained to hear Greg on the other end, listening as his friend started filling him in on the random happenings at the Yard and Molly’s newest endeavor of learning to sew (not very successful, apparently).

Greg was mid-sentence when the lights flickered, a concussion rocking through the FOB as John held the receiver and the line went dead. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, dropping it back to the cradle and moving toward the exits in search of wounded he was unlikely to find; shelling rarely did more than rattle the walls and kill the commo lines. More of a message and a distraction than an actual attack.

Another wonderful day in the sandbox had begun, leaving John active and wondering exactly what the hell we was doing back here. 

\---

Mycroft starred without focus at the now quiet phone in his hands. He’d just been informed by his men down in intel that John’s location was now central to a new and aggressive wave of insurgent activity. Sherlock was going to kill him and half the army if Mycroft did not yank him out somehow. The last few months had shifted Mycroft’s primary focus off of his little brother, and more toward keeping John breathing so that Sherlock did not have a reason to go down the more dangerous paths that James Moriarty had taken in life. John Watson had stepped into Sherlock's life, and the dealers and withdrawal had stepped out, just like that. He did not attempt to understand what was between the unlikely pair, he simply thanked fate or whatever forces brought them together and accepted that John Watson was as critical to Sherlock's longevity as he himself was. Mycroft’s hand scrubbed down his chin and he leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath and setting in to placing calls. 

He spent several hours on the phone, growing increasingly frustrated with each wall of red tape he encountered. At the fourth hour it became clear that he’d left it too long. John was stuck. It was going to be more dangerous to try and pull him out than to leave him where he was. The activity had shifted too rapidly, the numbers far higher than anticipated, and the fighting on the ground had become intense. Within the last hour, insurgents had managed to take down an Apache. Extraction would be impossible. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes and leaned forward on his elbows as the phone rang, waiting for Sherlock to pick up. 

“Go away Mycroft. Have you any idea what time it is here?” Sherlock was openly irritated, his mood foul with exhaustion. It occurred to Mycroft that he had probably not had any proper rest in quite some time. 

“You need to come home... Sherlock, I can’t get him out.” 

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Soon Mycroft, I will be able to return soon. You’re the bloody government, _do_ something with all those strings of yours for Christ’s sake, and get him out of there.” Sherlock killed the call before Mycroft could say anything else. 

Mycroft set his lips in a thin line and shook his head, eyes closing as he tamped down on the surge of irritation with his brother. He dialed Molly a moment later.

“He continues to refuse what he deems a premature return,” Mycroft said when she answered. He listened as the gentle woman swore under her breath, obviously distressed. She'd clearly held onto hope that the danger around John would lure Sherlock back to safety himself.

“Greg said the phone line went dead while he was talking to John. I’m worried Mycroft... about them both. Stupid... both of them so _stupid._ ” Molly’s voice wavered, and she went quiet.

Mycroft nodded as he held the phone to his ear, "I am trying, Molly. Do try to keep your chin up, there is hope for them yet. I doubt Sherlock would be swift to offer forgiveness to you were you to reveal his survival to Greg before he has returned, so do please be careful. I will look into the disconnect Greg spoke of, though it is not rare for communications to be interrupted even on the calmest days. I assure you I'm doing everything in my power. I have woefully little control of the other side.” 

Molly sighed through the line before speaking again, “I know, thanks Mycroft.” She ended the call without any pleasantries. She and Mycroft had been thrown in this together by Sherlock and had managed, despite their glaring differences, to forge a working friendship out of the situation in which they’d each been unwittingly thrust. 

\---

The fighting escalated sharply in the following week. John fell into his bunk for an hour, maybe two, before the alarms would blare and the next wave of wounded would be haul in. Blank eyes or desperate screams, all on faces far too young; John was back in his element, if nothing else. 

He was tucking the last of his kit away in the black duffle he and the other contractors had been issued, his uniform a simple black flight suit and his pay much more handsome than the Queen had managed. The Americans were with him frequently; their civilian sector notoriously more active.

He tipped his wrist, checking the time; fifteen minutes until they moved. Enough to call Greg, at any rate. He tapped his foot as the grainy line clicked and fussed, deciding if it would bother to connect. Finally it began to ring.

“Greg,” John said with a smile, glad to speak with him before leaving, “listen, not a lot of time. Moving me from Bagram up north. Can’t say where exactly but I could probably throw stones into Pakistan. I was going to call Mycroft, but I’d rather not get an earful at the moment. Pass on a greeting for me, will you?”

He heard Greg take a breath and someone knock on an office door far away in London, the normal backdrop of the Yard oddly soothing, reminding him that he’d not had the thought of Sherlock slamming hard into the concrete in nearly seventy-two hours. There was a jolt in his belly, though it passed quickly.

“Yeah John, yeah, I will. Molly too. Listen… be careful, yeah? It’s not the same here without you two breaking my door down every few days. I’d rather... just come home on your own two legs, okay?” Greg said as he paced around his desk, one hand in his pocket.

John smiled as his Second tapped his shoulder, spinning a finger in the air to let John know the blades were whirling and it was time to move.

“I’ll be in touch when I can Greg. Take care of Molly. I’ll see you soon,” and he dropped the line, throat a bit tight as he followed the crew out of their building to the waiting chinook outside. 

\---

Sherlock cursed as he strode through the airport. He was muttering, swearing under his breath to himself as he wove through the throngs of bodies, all dull and open-mouthed as they searched for their terminals as though solving the Goldbach Conjecture. Idiots, all. His crude language always called John to mind. At some point he'd adopted John's penchant for expletives, though when, exactly, he could not recall. 

He threw a duffle bag on the ground at his feet and looked around with irritation, searching for a place to light up that would not call the attention of airport security. He spotted the designated area at last, itching for a smoke. He grabbed his bag up and stalked to the little area, one ear tuned for the announcement of his flight; he’d be back in Europe soon. At least he was close to being home, closer to being able to see John again. Mycroft would surely have him returned by now, despite his posturing towards the inability to do so. He was Mycroft, of course he could get John home. Mycroft's attempts to lure Sherlock back before he was finished with his work were deplorably transparent. He refused to permit his mind to entertain scenarios of John’s reaction to his continued survival... it could go any number of ways, with ‘terribly’ among the more likely. That aside, he was horribly (and wonderfully) difficult to predict.

John was safe though. He must be. Sherlock had thrown himself from Bart's to protect him, had spent all that time tracking and dispatching every threat connected to Jim Moriarty and his web. Mycroft had promised John's safety in Sherlock's absence. He owed Sherlock and John as much, and Sherlock had no reason to doubt his ability to protect him. He took a long drag off the cigarette as he lit it, sinking down into one of the chairs and sighing. Exhaustion had eaten away at his nerves, drained his energy, dragged him down. Thoughts of John had propelled him forward, his only fuel for days upon weeks. He pulled out his mobile, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Leaving Buenos Aires... back in Europe tonight. How is John? Molly? Greg? SH

Mycroft stared at his phone. The screen was blurry with his lack of sleep. He was in no mood for much of anything at all. Mycroft mashed the buttons on the phone in irritation. 

Still in danger; Quite displeased with you; oblivious as always, respectively. Come home. You’re needed MH

Sherlock muttered as he took another drag and fired off an answering reply.

Told you to fix it. Just do it. I’ll see you at home soon. Going silent until I return, not much longer now. SH

He turned the phone off and stuffed it deep into his drab olive coat. His hair was long enough that he'd taken to trapping the unruly curls in an elastic at the base of his neck. He looked nothing like himself anymore; shadows under his eyes and bruised cheek bones, skin far darker than he could ever recall it being in his life. His pale complexion gone tan from days spent in the sun tracking and trailing pockets of Moriarty’s web in the southern hemisphere.

His flight number was called and gathered his things, stubbing out the cigarette and shuffling off to the plane.

\---

Mycroft’s phone rang, he knew instantly from the tone that it was Molly on the line. 

“Ms. Hooper, pleasure as always. What can I do for you?” He asked pleasantly, shuffling through stacks of paperwork. 

Molly's voice came over the line, bordering on open panic. “Have you heard? There are people missing in John’s unit...”

Mycroft stopped leafing through the stacks of intel on his desk, suddenly standing straight as his attention snapped to the matter at hand. “I’ll call you back.”

\---

It had gone belly up three days in. The fighting in the north had been intense, the facilities shoddy, and the body count astronomical. Retreat was called for within six hours of landing, but there was no possibility of extraction while the fighting was so out of hand.

John was thirty-seven hours without sleep, fingers scrambling inside a shredded leg in search of an artery while his soldier bled out, his screams died down to pathetic whimpers as rounds sliced the air around him. John was out of ammunition and the majority of the unit he was assigned to either dead or separated from him by at least 500 yards.

Very Not Good.

An explosion ripped his vision away, detonating within fifty yards. John was blown back, tossed up into the air like a rag doll, landing hard on his back and gasping as his hearing closed off to a shrill ring. He panted, blinking furiously to restore his vision, face and chest stinging horribly.

Rough hands were at his shoulders, yanking him hard off the ground what seemed like seconds later. The ring gave way to muffled, underwater sounds, sluggish and meaningless before something impacted hard across his head and he crumpled to the ground.

He woke up with the unmistakable grit of burlap over his head, hands lashed together at his back. Chatter in Pashto sank his stomach as his head swam, making him nauseous. They were in a vehicle, other bodies shoulder to shoulder with him. Friend or foe, he had no way of telling. 

\---

Mycroft flung his phone across the room, the unmistakable sound of its shattering glass and plastic hardly satisfying. John was gone -listed officially as _Missing In Action_ \- assumed dead. There was really no way he’d survived that attack on his unit. Nearly all the men had died there at the scene. John and a few others were listed as missing, though the shelling was heavy and thus it was entirely possible there was no body left to recover. He stood and paced, jaw ticking and mind racing. Sherlock had finally contacted him. He was on the ground in Europe, plane landed, coming across from France sometime in the next week or two. 

He yelled for another phone and Anthea brought one in, retrieving the SIM card from the old one and slipping it into the new. Since The Fall (as they had so casually dubbed it) this was a regular occurrence. She kept at least two replacements charged at any one time. He’d not managed to destroy the SIM card yet. He set his jaw and called Molly.

“Is Greg with you?”

“Yes? What is it Mycroft?”

He sighed before facing it, charging head on. “Molly... the missing, John is among the number.” He paused abruptly as unexpected, sudden sobs came over the line. A moment later, Molly's voice was replaced with Greg's.

“What the hell, Mycroft?” He demanded, openly irritated with Mycroft's handling of Molly.

“Ah, Gregory. I'm sorry to say that I've just relayed the very unfortunate news that John is among the missing, considered dead.” 

Silence hung heavy before Greg finally replied sadly, “Right, I’ve got her.”

The line went dead and Mycroft sank back into his chair. He rubbed his hands over his face and then held his head in his hands for a long time, wondering just what the hell he’d manage to tell Sherlock when he returned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue and a missed reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-graphic drug use

John blinked into the glaring light as the bag was torn from his head, wincing and angling his face down. The stale, humidified air rushed away from his face and he breathed deep, savoring the fresh, cooler air whispering across his damaged skin. He drew in several deep breaths, gunpowder and spice cloying in his nose. He was sandwiched between two men, one who was reading aloud, the other who pressed the barrel of rifle to his temple.

Well. It was better than a beheading. John leaned away from the press of the weapon instinctively, only to be pulled back upright by rough hands at the back of his neck. They were shouting at him in harsh Pashto to state his name, to beg for his life as the camera rolled. He pinched his lips in a tight line and moved his eyes to the red light above the lens. Like hell would he beg.

There was shouting as they shook him hard, voices manic as a heavy fist flew, swiftly bloodying him. He spat at their feet, glaring and defiant. They’d taken a man with nothing to lose. There was almost relief in the feel of the barrel pressed to the base of his neck. Despite the way his blood surged in his veins, heart racing, his mind went calm. 

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

He cracked a sad smile, his heart squeezing tight at the memory of Sherlock, the irony burning. They screamed at him for his name once more, another fist cracking the cartilage of his nose, blood pouring over his lips. He smiled manically, looking dead into the camera, exposing pinked teeth.

“John Watson,” he answered without waver before the pistol came down hard against the base of his skull and the lights went out. 

\---

Sherlock stood in front of Mycroft, dead calm. He gazed down at Mycroft who was sitting across the desk from him. Molly sat beside Sherlock as his voice rumbled low, a dangerous current to his words.

“What you are telling me, is that you failed to retrieve him, failed to stop prevent his capture, and he’s now assumed dead?”

Molly reached up for Sherlock’s hand, trying to tug him back down to sit. Sherlock violently jerked his hand away from her and glared at her in warning. She withdrew with a sigh. 

Mycroft’s tone was cutting as he watched Sherlock. “I told you to come home. I did not _allow_ anything to happen. You left him feeling he had no choice. He left to help people, to _live._ ”

Sherlock scoffed, voice venomous as his eyes flicked between the two of them. “Damn you both. You had _one_ job and you _failed._ It’s a wonder I didn’t die involving you two in my plans.”

Molly broke into tears as Sherlock stormed from the office, leaving Mycroft to handle the damage. Mycroft called Greg to come pick her up as Anthea brought tea and tried to soothe her. 

\---

Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street, wanting nothing more than the comfort and familiarity of home. He’d fantasized about returning so many times, that the empty feel of the place was nearly more than he could bear. He found his way to John’s room, a bottle of liquor nearly killed and hanging limp in his hand. He sprawled on the bed as his mind reeled. 

He’d done all of this to protect John, and it hadn’t been enough. It wasn’t Molly or Mycroft who had failed, it was him. He went back downstairs and changed into jeans and a t-shirt, some stupid band logo plastered across his chest. He absently tugged on the boots that had carried him through half of South Africa, fingers working in muscle memory as he laced them up. This was the end of the road for him. Without John, the work didn’t matter. How could it matter? How could he carry on with life when he’d robbed John of his own?

He penned a short note to Mycroft with shaking hands, his chest tight and heavy.

_I’m done, don’t bother trying to find me._

-Sherlock

He left his phone on the note and scooped up a messenger bag. A few changes of clothes and his box, his lovely wooden box, inside. It was time to forget.

\---

Mycroft sighed as he stood in the empty flat, the note crumpled in one hand, Sherlock’s mobile in the other. Mrs. Hudson stood at the back of the sitting room by the stairs, hands over her face in open distress. Greg had an arm around Molly. They’d come looking for him, trying to comfort Sherlock as they gathered more details about John. Mrs. Hudson had found the note. 

“Let us hope John is simply missing... else we’ve lost Sherlock entirely. Gregory, call if you hear anything.” Mycroft did not bother waiting for a response, turning and sweeping out of the room before his own composure broke. He knew what this meant. Sherlock had done this before; a spot of bad news paired with a feeling of the inevitable, and Sherlock was out in the underbelly of London, subjecting his veins to needles; money in exchange for the chemical lie of comfort. Greg Lestrade had pulled Sherlock Holmes out of gutters and dumpsters more times than Mycroft cared to keep track of. Perhaps he could manage it one more time, it was all Mycroft could hope for.

\---

John had no way of knowing how many days slipped by as he languished in the dark with his fellow contractors, one young soldier with them, gravely wounded. He did his best by the boy (‘Peters,’ his tattered uniform told John, the kid’s tags had flown off him in the original explosion), treating him with the extremely limited supplies he was allowed. He considered smothering the poor boy once the fever began, infection would have him down in a matter of days.

They were not fed often, and the water was suspect, but otherwise there was not too much activity. He was sure he was concussed, his hearing shot and his vision slipped blurry periodically, but otherwise sound.

That was, until he’d been randomly chosen from their small number, dragged from the back of the dark cave to a more central room. A camera rolled as they strapped him to a chair, several mobile phones blinking at him as the men filmed themselves beating him senseless, never so much as questioning him. This was for show, there was no way to save himself. He blacked out before they were done, waking some time later alone and bleeding, cuffed to the floor. He only managed to vomit to the side before sinking back down into oblivion.

The cycle carried for days on end. He lost count, unable to focus his eyes or get a clear thought in his swollen brain. 

\---

TOP SECRET

The wire came in a thin package, flash drives labeled red and carried in a sealed manila envelope finding their way to the desks of several British and American politicians, sand clinging to the tape. One such package was sitting in wait on the rich mahogany of one Mycroft Holmes’ desk. 

\---

Mycroft watched with apprehension. His eyes taking in details as the film flickered across his computer. When it was over he breathed a sigh of tight relief. John was alive, at the very least. There was a possibility of getting to him before they beat in his skull, no matter how narrow the chance. 

He sprung into action, making phone calls and shooting off an e-mail. Very soon the ball was rolling on a rescue. He had further intelligence on his desk within an hour. Seemed like the hostage exchange wouldn’t be needed after all. Mycroft’s face lit up in a rare smile as he called his most trusted contact in the military.

\---

Sherlock had no idea where he was this time. He heard Lestrade’s voice through the fog. How he loathed coming down.

“Come on then... Bust coming through in an hour, you need out of here.”

He didn’t really remember anything else. He woke up hours later in a hotel room. Seedy place, but clean. His clothes were laundered and his bag repacked. He was naked but the note from Lestrade said it all.

I wasn’t bathing your sorry arse. Washed the clothes though. 

He’d be ashamed.  
-Greg

That ached. He didn’t know how many times Greg had pulled him out of the gutter. Inevitably scooping Sherlock out of locations just before a raid and hauling his ass out of the fire, leaving him in hotel rooms now instead of taking him home. Sherlock had destroyed his guest room trying to get out the last time Greg had made that mistake. 

Sherlock tore the note up in a fit of rage before throwing himself into the shower.

He scrubbed himself and washed his shaggy hair. He didn’t care anymore. John wouldn’t be ashamed, John was _dead._ He hurriedly dressed and disappeared from the room before Greg could come back and give the ‘let’s go to rehab’ lecture.

\---

Mycroft hung up the phone and nearly threw it in his frustrated rage. Greg had lost eyes on Sherlock. Weeks could pass before Sherlock would be found again, if at all. If he didn’t stumble, drugged, into the Thames and drown himself first. He rubbed his temples, waiting word in regards to John’s rescue efforts.

\---

By the time English words followed the tattering cacophony of English rounds, John could not open his right eye, and he’d more than one rib screaming its damage at him, breathing made painful and difficult as each expansion of his chest shifted fractures along the bones. There was a round in his ankle to keep him from running, and _fuck_ did it hurt.

Someone called his name, hauling him up and over broad shoulders before nausea washed over him and the lights scattered out on cracks of brilliant white and gold. When he came to again, he questioned the retention of his sanity. He blinked carefully, flinching and swearing under his breath as his damaged face screamed at him for the movement. His head ached and his stomach turned, but it looked as though he were in hospital. A proper, English hospital.

“Hello?” he called out, fingers tightening in the bedding. His vision was limited and blurred and his entire body felt tight and swollen, heavily bandaged, but the air was clean and easy, and the room cool and calm. His chest caught and he bit down on his lip, scarcely believing his reality. 

Mycroft woke with a start from his chair across the room. He was on his feet and to the side of the bed in the next moment.

“Hush now John, it’s alright. We got you out. I’ll go get a nurse.” He stepped out into the hallway and flagged John’s nurse down.

Margerie bustled into the room and checked over everything, speaking calmly to her old friend as she did so. “Doctor Watson, bleeding idiot... Told you not to go down there.” She huffed as she touched his hair gently, “About time for another round of pain medication. You’ve been out for days.“

Mycroft hovered through her speech, behaving as though he were ensuring John’s proper care, though, really, he was assuring himself the doctor was indeed awake and functioning. He needed John better, not only because he happened to like the man as well as he liked anyone, but they needed John to find Sherlock. It had become clear over the last few weeks that John was the only hope of pulling Sherlock out of this mess.

\---

Sherlock laid on the floor of the flat. He wasn’t sure why he returned. He’d broken in again, unable to keep himself away despite it being reckless to come back time and again. Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening. The cool of the basement was soothing as he stared up at the ceiling, wishing John were walking around on the higher levels. 

Sherlock would move on again after this round of nostalgic indulgence, lose himself somewhere else in the belly of London. Perhaps this time his brain would let him off the hook long enough to wander into trouble that would take him away from this existence. 

He came to, mostly sober, hours later. Mrs. Hudson had come in and gone to bed, he could tell. The telly in her flat was playing the late show she hated. He gathered his things and wandered out, sneaking out of the flat and flipping off the camera he knew Mycroft monitored.

Later, Mycroft would damn himself for not having people stationed at the flat to intercept Sherlock.

\---

John stared at the nurse for a few seconds before he remembered the round in his leg. With a start he shot up, dizzy, hand reaching out to ensure his foot was still there. It had been terribly infected, and he was worried they’d needed to take it. He sighed and sank back down to the mattress after finding it wrapped in a plaster, bloodied toes sticking out at the end. He dropped a hand to his chest to calm himself down, turning slowly to Mycroft.

“It’s good to see you,” he said a bit roughly, wishing that it was Sherlock at his side. He shook his head at Margerie, wanting nothing to do with the pain medication. He thanked her gently, touching her hand and waiting until she left them alone to speak, studying Mycroft with suspicion. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate this, Mycroft, but… why are you here?” He and Mycroft had a friendship, of sorts, nothing John would label as the ‘bedside vigil’ friend, though. Greg yes, and Molly, but Mycroft?

His stomach sank as he watched him, wondering what the hell it was he was missing. 

“I think that conversation needs to wait on Ms. Hooper and D.I. Lestrade...” Mycroft answered softly, clearing his throat and folding his hands behind his back. Thankfully the pair were just around the corner by then, swiftly entering John’s room. 

John smiled at them both as they entered, his chest tight and eyes stinging at the sight of his dear friends. He’d honestly resigned himself to never seeing them again, and the rush of warmth that washed over him at their presence was unexpectedly strong. 

Molly’s reaction was entirely unexpected. She took one look at John and broke into heavy tears, leaning against Greg hard as she began to babble, losing her composure entirely.

“I’m sorry John, he made me. I couldn’t say anything. He made me pro-promise.” Molly finally choked out.

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose at her less than ideal delivery. He spoke softly. “John, I need you to remain calm.” He’d already tasked Margerie to be on standby with a sedative, not having the slightest clue how John was going to take the news.

Molly wrapped her hand tenderly around John’s, avoiding his bandaged knuckles, as she worried her lip harshly between her teeth. Greg looked between the two of them and rolled his eyes.

Molly, patted John’s hand gently, “It will be ok, it’s all going to be ok. Somehow.”

Mycroft shifted uneasily and finally spoke again, egged on by the looks he was getting from John and Greg.

“John, Sherlock’s alive.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was, indeed, alive. Much to his dismay. He woke up in increments, reeking of vomit and wincing at the feel of it. Well, that had been close, hadn’t it? Not close enough, apparently. He stumbled out of the room a few moments later to hear Lestrade’s voice, stopping him up short. 

_Undercover,_ he thought as he pulled himself together and slid out the back of the seedy den he’d been in the last few days, loading himself to the gills and cursing each time he damned well woke up again. He wandered through the alleys until he came to one of the pay by the hour places.

The clerk hardly glanced up at him from behind the barred box in the lobby, stale cigarette smoke broken by the tendrils of the one nestled between dirty fingers. Sherlock handed him a crumpled wad of bills and made his way through the poorly lit, threadbare halls. He still had a clean change of clothes. None of his finer attire, the Dolce and Armani all left behind at Baker Street least they earn him a knife in the belly by some junkie robbing him for a fix.

He found the room and pressed the tarnished key into the lock, nose wrinkling at the state of the place. He made straight for the bath, intent on showering. Cigarette butts still floated in the toilet, black ash settled in the base of the bowl. The mirror was yellowed and streaked, the entire affair reeking of stale meth and blood. 

He stood in the shower for a long time, washing himself over and over until he was satisfied that he’d cleaned himself of the questionable mattresses and seedy rooms he’d been nesting in. The taps squeaked as he shut them off, frowning as the rusted faucet continued to drip. He stepped out, wrapping in a towel of questionable cleanliness, and began combing out his overly-long hair in front of the mirror. 

Why wouldn’t this end? This time without John, it was too much.

He pulled his hair back in a ponytail again and slowly dressed. His head popped through a tee with AC DC emblazoned across the front before he slid into jeans. He looked like an older college student like this, body all limbs and sarcasm balled up into a shadow of Sherlock Holmes.

He gathered his things into his bag, sweeping his eyes over the dingy room before clicking off the light and setting out for the next place to lose himself. 

\---

John blinked at them, the single eye he could crack open moving from Mycroft’s face, to Molly’s tears, to Greg. He cracked a half smile, huffing an empty laugh as he pressed the palm of one hand to his ear, grinding against it before shaking his head slowly.

“For a moment, I thought you said Sh-“ he cut himself off, unable to even say his name aloud yet, “I thought you said he was alive.”

He took his hand away from Molly and pulled himself to sit up slowly, shifting more comfortably before he looked up at them again, their expressions unchanged. His heart kicked up sharply as he turned back to Mycroft, damming how dulled his senses had been.

“Wait. Are you… are you s-serious?” He asked, his face pulled down under the weight of incredulous pain. Perhaps he was more concussed than he thought. He looked over at the ticking clock on the wall, the sunlight spilling in from a window that showed London was in fact behind it. Everything felt… tangible and legitimate despite the crawling doubt of his reality.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft merely nodded, staying quiet for a moment as he tried to decide how to approach the rest of it. Molly started babbling, “We thought you were dead, John, dead! Now he’s _gone_.” Greg sharply tugged on her sleeve and she shut up abruptly. 

Mycroft eyed her and sighed before speaking to John again.

“Sherlock’s spent most of the last eighteen months tracking down and removing all of Moriarty’s web to keep you safe. You, Gregory, Mrs. Hudson. Only Molly and I knew.” Molly was rambling whispered apologies under her breath as Mycroft continued. “I tried to get him to come home when you decided to become a contractor and return to Afghanistan. He begged me to get you out. I tried, but I wasn’t willing to ruin you to do it.”

Mycroft scrubbed a hand over his face as he paused, letting John absorb what he was saying as he collected his thoughts.

“He came home right after you’d been captured. Intel gave us every reason to believe you were dead. Sherlock-” Mycroft’s voice caught for a moment. “John, we don’t know where he is. We… _I_ gave him an update on your status, and now he’s gone down the rabbit hole again, assuming you lost.”

John’s hands had slowly began to shake as he listened to Mycroft tell him the impossible facts of his new reality. He stared at Mycroft as though he’d never seen him before; perhaps he hadn’t.

Down the rabbit hole. So Sherlock was slumming it, cracking from needle to needle in the festering underworld of the homeless network, most likely intent on slowly killing himself. Slowly it began shifting into place, settling in deeper. 

Sherlock wasn’t dead.

John wasn’t dead.

Had that kid made it out of the caves? John’s thoughts suddenly shifted on him. He was only just back from being a damned prisoner of war, after all. His head throbbed and a dizzying wave of nausea washed over him, but he took a long slow breath to master it. 

The next terrible string of thoughts directed his attention to Molly. Little, sweet Molly. Molly, who had held his hand and given him the coroners report, who’d walked him to Sherlock’s grave, had put him up in a temporary flat when Baker Street had become too much to bear. Molly who cleaned him up in the mornings after John had drank himself past the fucking pain of it, when the bottle was all that would get that damned voice, _this is my note,_ out of his ear. Molly who had, the night before he’d gone to sign a contract, talked the barrel of his Browning away from his temple. She’d been lying to him the entire time, and it cut deeper than any of the men in that fucking cave had. 

“Get out,” he whispered, seething, “Molly. Get. Out.” He clipped, struggling not to lose his composure and say something he would regret, willing Greg and Molly to leave he and Mycroft to have this out.

“John,” Greg began, reaching out. John flinched hard away and shouted, “OUT!” 

Mycroft remained as they left, passively watching the goings on. John wouldn’t run him off as easily. 

“John, you must calm yourself. You’re still healing from some rather serious injuries.” He discreetly pushed the call button as he watched John, adding to the information he’d already given in hopes it would help motivate John to his cause. “He did it for you, you know? There was a sniper trained on you, someone in Gregory's office, and a killer in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, just waiting, all of them waiting. Had he not done this, you’d all be dead.”

John raised a shaking hand up to silence him, furious, betrayed. He’d gone to Molly time and again, but he and Mycroft had formed -what John had thought- a legitimate friendship. “You knew. All this time you knew. You came to his grave with me and you knew he was-“ He tipped his head to the side as he watched Mycroft incredulously, furious and wounded.

“You are the reason he was even put- I watched him fall- how could that- it was _him_ he was _dead_ -“ His hearing went high itched and tinny as his face blanched, abruptly cutting off the pointless stammering.

He pressed his palm to his face as his head swam, brilliant shocks of sparking pain lighting up in random places. He’d been stuck unconscious many times over, his head heavy as the whisper of _wrong_ laced across his mind. The door swung open and John looked up, seeing Margerie and the syringe in her hand. He shot a betrayed look at Mycroft and drew his hands back in an effort to hide his drip line from her.

“Don’t,” he whispered, “Don’t give me that.”

Mycroft held up his hands. “It was only if you continued to rage.”

Mycroft sighed and shifted back, keeping his eyes on John as he reached behind him and drew up his chair, slowly settling back down in it. “You can harbor resentment for me as much as you like, John, but the blame falls to Sherlock. Both Molly and I implored him to tell you, repeatedly. He’s paying the price of not heeding our counsel, now. Gregory manages to find him now and again, in varying states of sobriety and health. He ensures-” He stopped speaking to touch a finger to his lips, closing his eyes as he wrestled with the words, “He ensures Sherlock has clean syringes and money. He cleans him up, but we can’t keep hold of him. He tore apart Gregory’s guest room and escaped down the bloody side of his house. This is the worst I’ve seen him, historically. This isn’t boredom, John, not this time. He’s trying to kill himself without overdosing. He can’t outright do it, I do not believe. It seems he holds out hope that he’ll stumble inebriated into the freezing Thames, or some junkie will take him down for his wallet.”

Mycroft let the silence hang for a minute before taking a breath, using the tip of his umbrella to propel himself to his feet. “I cannot force you to do this, John, but Sherlock needs your help. You know him better than anyone. You need to heal, then you need to find him.” He paused and gentled his voice, letting a touch of his familial desperation lace through his otherwise professional tone. “John, you have to save him.”

John held his tongue, glaring at Mycroft, enraged. There were far too many things to consider here, least of all the fact that he had no idea what became of his unit, how he came to be nestled in Saint Bart’s, and what his physical condition was after weeks of torture in captivity. His eyes cut away, watching the early afternoon sun as he clenched and relaxed his hands, shifting his legs, rolling his shoulder, taking stock of himself. His voice was low and rasping, weeks of being made to scream and no proper air having destroyed his vocal chords, when he finally addressed Mycroft.

“I need a car, and crutches. I’m assuming you’re watching the CC footage. Get me a mobile and get me the fuck out of this hospital,” he clipped, issuing orders with practiced ease, savoring the indulgence in language that felt as rough as he did.

“And Mycroft?” He added, turning his attention back to the man, “I want you to stay the hell away from me.”

\---

Sherlock groaned as he woke up to someone standing over him. He narrowed his eyes and finally recognized some of the homeless network yelling orders at one another as they pulled him to his feet. He grumbled at them to leave him the hell alone. He was ignored and taken to a ramshackle, dilapidated home on the edge of the warehouse district. The woman who’d taken Sherlock and John’s cab fare on their first case dumped him unceremoniously in the shower and turned it on full blast... freezing.

Sherlock yelped as she threw the soap and rag at him, “Clean up for Christ’s sake, Sherlock.”

He was left alone again in the dark, the shock of freezing water sloughing away the haze of days on end high and unfed, buzzing without sleep. He struggled to warm the water and take a proper shower, despite the way his hands shook for want of a needle.

\---

Mycroft nodded to John, “Fair enough Doctor Watson. Just find him.” Gone were the traces of open concern, Mycroft returned to all business, brusque. He strode from the room, already on his phone, leaving Margerie to stare at John with an eyebrow raised.

“Sure you don’t want this after all that?” She asked of the sedative, a bit more gentle than before.

“Get me discharge paperwork, I know it will be Against Medical Advice, and I don’t care. I need crutches, antibiotics, and Co-dydramol. I’m leaving,” He snapped, leaning over to pluck a few gauze pads off the night table before swiftly pulling his line, hissing and pressing a pad to the weeping skin where the catheter had just been. He looked up to see her standing where she was not having moved at all, and snapped, “Now!”

He had no patience, no softness to him. He was raw and furious, rage lending him strength where he otherwise would have none to spare. He looked around, eyes falling to a military issue set of black track pants and a grey hoodie, “PHOENIX CORP.,” blasted across the back, the emblem of his contracting firm.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and his body immediately let him know what a poor choice that had been. He growled and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, steadying himself as stars popped across his vision and his stomach rolled, the room tipping sideways for a moment before setting to rights again. John waited a few moments, breathing slowly, before carefully sliding off the edge of the bed to stand, gripping tight to the rail until he was sure his leg would hold him.

He waited for Margerie to huff and shuffle out before attempting to get at his clothes. It was a painful, dizzying affair trying to move with the bullet wound at his ankle slicing pain up his leg, the rest of him still quite weak from his time in captivity. He sat heavily in the chair that Mycroft had vacated and simply shucked the gown off where he sat, leaving himself in naught but pants. He pulled on the hoodie, managing to get it around the bandages wrapping his head, before attempting the trousers. He had to pull the elastic from the leg to manage it over the plaster, but he’d done it. He waited, breathlessly, body aching and head spinning for Margerie to return with what he’d requested.

She returned shortly and slapped the paperwork down on the chair beside him, jabbing a finger at him, “Next time you come in this hospital, you better come by and apologize for being an arse John Watson. I’ll put up with it given the circumstances but this is bullshit and you know it. Sign the damn things and I’ll collect them later.” She dropped a pair of crutches beside him as well as a bag with requested drugs.

She stalked back out of the room and disappeared down the hall without another word.

\---

Sherlock was showered, clothes had laundered again and he found money and fresh syringes in his bag. No note. Greg hadn’t delivered them directly then. Greg hadn’t found him in a while. He narrowed his eyes as he saw her sitting at the foot of the bed, “Go on, I don’t want to talk to you.” She shrugged and stood. 

“That DI you were always flouncing around with sent those through the network. Said to tell you he’s alive.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up even as he pulled on fresh clothes in front of her, mindless to his state of undress “ _Who_ is alive?” He demanded, eyes narrowed and openly suspicious.

She blinked at him as though he’d suddenly gone stupid. “Watson...”

He tilted his head as his mind flitted through possible scenarios where that outcome could possibly be true. “Impossible. A ploy to get me to rehab. Kindly tell Detective Inspector Lestrade I said _Fuck. Off._ ” 

She shrugged and stood, waving a hand at him as she disappeared out the doorway. Sherlock gathered his things and took off in the opposite direction.

\---

There was a car waiting downstairs on John, cell phone inside sitting atop a brand new tablet. A note affixed to it:

_Thought you’d need computing power that wasn’t still en route from Afghanistan._

_Mycroft._

John sat in the car, staring at the note for a moment before looking up to the driver. Sherlock would not be at the flat, not with every official in London after him. John exhaled and tried to slow himself down; one thing at a time. He reached into the white paper bag with trembling hand and fished out the meds. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, and that could be dealt with straight away. He popped the narcotics and took a deep, steadying breath, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from his pocket to hide his horrifically swollen eye, wishing it would mask all of the deep purple bruising across his face. He looked a fright. 

John deliberated a moment before instructing the driver to the underbelly of the Thames in the warehouse districts, banking on the network there as a decent starting point. He viciously shoved down _John_ as he gathered up his military bearing and functioned as an automation, moving forward as _Watson,_ mechanical and precise, pressing forward despite well, everything. 

He was going to find that idiot and kill him himself. For a moment, an intense wave of relief flooded over him that there was an idiot at all to be found, and he hand to clear his throat and blink rapidly to compose himself from the thought.

Greg was back at the Yard, having tucked Molly into bed with a glass of wine and Bridget Jones on the telly, making his best efforts to remind her that John was not himself, and had suffered a terrible shock, and surely he’d forgive them all soon enough. The caseload was slight and he had time off the clock to pour himself into finding Sherlock, or at least making efforts at it.

Mycroft texted him John’s new number. He stared at it, deliberating for a moment before sighing and sending him a text, adding clarity to the situation and hoping it would help:

I didn’t know until they brought you home, John. I’m going to scout the normal places, I’ve left packages and notes everywhere I can think of. I’ve got a watch out for him. He’s tanned and has his hair tied back most of the time, keep a close watch. –GL

John read the text twice, a whisper of calm settling over him as he realized his closest friend, at the very least, hadn’t been in on keeping such a horrible secret. John refused to think on Molly for the time being, glad that Greg was helping, that he retained at least one trusted contact.

Thank you. Please watch the flat as well. JW

\---

Sherlock hovered in the alley near the flat, entertaining the foolish glimmer of hope the message had sparked in his chest, scouting the place to verify Greg’s claim that John was alive. No new lights, nothing changed. John would have come home. _Liars_. There was one of Mycroft’s flunkies hovering in watch of the flat as well. _Rehab_ , this was all a horrific, dirty ploy of Mycroft’s to get him into rehab. Bastards. This one stung. It was a trap. He spun, the drab olive coat lacking the effect the Belstaff managed. He strolled down the stairs to the Tube and headed back to the underbelly. He’d lose himself in the warehouses again.

The train was uneventful, other than a snarl at another junkie for getting too close to him. Sherlock exited the train and bounded up the stairs, already itching for another fix. His eyes narrowed as he glanced around. Carlo was always somewhere here... Sherlock spotted him after a moment. He headed towards one of his oldest dealers and linked arms with him. There was a playful wink as a couple nearby watched them warily. Sherlock kissed Carlo on the cheek, walking with him as he would a lover. 

The moment they were in the alleyway Sherlock tore his arm away from the man. He shoved a wad of cash at him, incredulous as Carlo shook his head and handed back most of the money, along with a small baggie that contained hardly enough to let Sherlock have a fix at all.

“Lestrade and Mycroft both say hello. Oh, and to tell you he’s back.”

Carlo never saw the fist and went stumbling back, breath almost knocked out of him as he slammed into the wall.

“Tell them I said they’re fucking liars. John hasn’t been home and they can fuck right off.”

Sherlock was gone. He expertly slipped into the shadows disappearing into the maze of warehouses nearby.

\---

By the time the car rolled up where John had asked the driver to go, it was late afternoon. The quality of the light changed to a more orange hue, kicking up dusty purple along the treetops. John struggled out of the car, awkward with the new crutches, still adjusting to the feel of them as he eased himself to the curb. He did not have to tell the driver to wait as he scanned the area behind his dark lenses. 

He caught sight of her leaning over the railing, looking down at the muddy water. It was beyond surreal to suddenly be back home, looking for _Sherlock_ of all things. He shook his head and then swiftly remembered why that was a terrible idea, the shadow of concussion making the world a bit slow to catch up with his line of sight. 

John moved slowly over to her, forced to manage a few stairs, the _step-click_ of his walk pared with the crutches calling back to his days with a cane, years ago when Sherlock had taken his cab fare and put it in her hands, buying her attention. He made it up the steps and clicked his way to her side, the sound giving him away. She turned and swept her eyes over him before returning her attention to the water. 

“He thinks you’re dead,” she said, her tone giving away her boredom, “Won’t hear his brother or the D.I. I scraped him out of his own vomit three days ago. I don’t know where he is.” 

John sighed and whispered thanks, pulling out his wallet, still caked in dust and grime, the cloying scent of gunpowder wafting up from the leather, and slipped her a tenner, along with a hastily scratched number. 

“If you see that idiot, give him this, will you? Thank you for taking care of him. If he comes your way, or you hear anything, please call me. Always a meal and some coin for your information.”

\---

Sherlock stumbled out of the warehouse towards the Thames. If he could just make it down the stairs. Sit on the rocks and watch it rise... Getting to the bank was a long, slow process. He frightened off a happy couple on a stroll, who looked at him as though they expect to be robbed. He eventually made it over the rail and nearly fell as he made his way down the service stairs for the dock. His satchel spilled half his belongings on the sidewalk where he went over. He didn’t care.

He stumbled down to the edge of the water and sat, praying it was low tide. It wasn’t, and had he not blitzed himself out of his head with the needle he’d have known. He laid back, staring up at the sky. It was that unusual shade of purple, just before everything goes completely dark. He found himself wishing he could see the stars instead of the washed out London skyline.

“Fuck you, John... why didn’t you just wait on me?”

He shoved his satchel under his head as the drug took over completely and rational thinking ceased.

\---

Texts started rolling in on his mobile, making it buzz and flash at him as he had the driver eased slowly around the warehouses, eyes sharp for dealers or anyone of Sherlock’s height. 

He scanned them, most from unknown numbers, two from Greg. 

Some chatter about the lower Thames, have a dealer here with a broken nose. GL

John scowled as he asked the driver to change course, eyes sharp out the window. Greg geo-tagged the dealer’s claimed location, about a quarter mile from John’s location. It was dark by the time they stopped, the temperature dropping swiftly. 

It was slow going moving along the cracked walkway tracing the curve of the river, his strength fading. An hour passed without any luck, several exchanges with Greg turning up nothing. He was starting to worry that he’d be going home without Sherlock for the night. With the heavy knot of worry in his belly, shivering hard against the bite in the air, he sighed and propped against the railing as he shook out painkillers into his hand, downing them dry. 

“Come on, Sherlock, the hell are you?” He breathed into the night, dropping his focus down to the water below. His eyes narrowed on an anomaly along the shoreline, leaning a bit over the cold metal, pushing the glasses up on his hairline to better see. 

“What the-” he whispered, suddenly moving. His crutches clicked and shifted over the uneven pavement, propelling him closer as something buzzed at the back of his mind, urgency lending speed to his clumsy steps. It was a person, to be sure. He made his way down the steps, nearly falling twice, forcing himself to slow down as adrenaline made him clumsy. There was nothing to say this was Sherlock, it could be anyone. 

The shale along the Thames was loose and prone to slipping like gravel and he shifted to bear most of his weight on his feet, crutches now functioning for balance only as he hobbled forward, stopping ten paces from the man. He fished out his mobile and clicked on the light, sweeping it over the figure, heart leaping to his throat. 

“Oh, _Jesus_. Sherlock?” He called out, dropping the crutches and stumbling to his side, dropping to his knees as his hands went to bony shoulders, shaking him. “Sherlock!”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock winced as loud and bright interrupted the train of thought he was riding. He turned toward the annoyance finally. His eyes slowly focused on John, “Oh, it’s you? Sod off and quit haunting me already. I’ll be dead as soon as I can manage it.” Sherlock shook his head and swiped at John clumsily. “Got yourself killed, asshole.” He dropped his head back on his satchel and stared up at the sky.

“Liars. They just want me in rehab.” He smacked again at John with zero coordination, “Go away.”

John leaned back, hands propped on his knees, simply watching Sherlock for a moment. He was alive. It was... he’d known he was alive, had been looking for him after all. It was just the shock of actually seeing. He stared at him, letting it all settle, feeling far too many things to name just a single one among their number. It didn’t matter. Sherlock was alive. 

Alive, and higher than the ISS. 

He slid the keypad of his mobile down and sent a text to Greg, biting down on the inside of his lip. 

He’s here, high but alright, I think. May need help moving him. JW

He set the mobile aside and dragged a hand down his face, numb. “I’m right bloody here, you damn idiot,” he groused at Sherlock, watching him closely. “I’m not leaving.”

\---

Mycroft got the text a few moments later. Of course he was spying on John’s new mobile, and was already dispatching an ambulance from a private clinic when it sank in that John actually had Sherlock. He nearly wept, voice actually shaking as he barked instructions to the crew on the other end of the phone.

\---

Sherlock looked back at John movements sluggish, “I’m dead then? Managed to do it? How’d it happen? Drown? Laid down by the Thames. Why the fuck is it so cold here? Or maybe not dead, and you’re just still following me.” He’d barely had enough to get high, his tolerance for the drugs already starting to bring him down. He glared at John, “You went to Afghanistan again. Bloody idiot. Captured. Stupid, stupid man. I was coming home. Why do you look so beat to hell? You usually come float at my heels in proper skin”

Sherlock was rambling nonsense the longer he went on, ranting and raving at John for leaving him alone in the world, honestly sick of hallucinating him. He’d managed to have conversations with John over the course of the week, but he’d not felt so corporeal or appeared so battered, before.

John did not reply to anything Sherlock was saying, knowing the likelihood of Sherlock remembering anything from the night was very low. John ran through a series of vitals checks as Sherlock raved, clearly believing himself dead or hallucinating, ensuring that Sherlock wasn’t about to kick off on him, confident he was as medically sound as possible. Thin and gaunt, but not overdosed. 

Flashing lights and a siren that did not belong to Greg rolled up to the street above them and John grit his teeth, _furious._ An ambulance was more than likely to send Sherlock into combative agitation, of all the things they didn’t need right now. Bloody Mycroft. 

I believe I asked you to leave us alone- JW

He sent the text with shaking fingers, knowing medics would only stir Sherlock into a frenzy. “Don’t swing on these people, Sherlock, I’m just going to have them help me get you home. If you act like a prat I may let them divert to a rehab facility,” he grumbled, watching as two uniformed medics came down their way. He held up a hand to keep them at a distance, looking back at the idiot on the ground. 

“I can’t lift you, just... just let them move you, yeah?”

Sherlock muttered at John as John’s phone buzzed.

I believe you’ll find they’re private medics and therefore not required to take you anywhere you don’t want to go. I’ll leave it to you to decide what is best. You are a doctor after all. - MH

He glared over at John, “Why do you have a cell phone here? Celestial reception? I’ll behave, not like they can do anything to me. I’m dead apparently. Don’t be an idiot.” He sighed as he looked up at the sky. “I wanted to see the stars, really see them again before I died.”

He waved a hand, “Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries hold! enough!”

John let the medics come closer, catching Sherlock’s waving hand for a moment. “Ghosts, the pair of us,” he whispered before letting him go, carefully getting to his feet as he let the more able bodied manage Sherlock up off the ground, watching his acute lack of muscle tone. 

It was a to-do getting them up the steps and loaded into the back of the ambulance. Greg managed to pull up just before they shut the bay doors, hopping inside to check on the pair of them, clearly relieved at the sight of Sherlock. 

“Follow you to the flat,” he said with a tight nod, hopping back out and patting the doors twice after he shut them. The medic in the back with John was readying a drip line. John reached out and stilled his hand, shaking his head. “Leave it,” he whispered, leaning back and scrubbing a hand to his face, wincing as he was swiftly reminded of all the swelling there. Sherlock slipped into a doze and John was just fine with that. 

How they got up to the second floor was beyond him. Mrs. Hudson was hanging on John’s arm even as he tried to gimp his way up the stairs, Greg following behind in case he misjudged a step. He had the medics get Sherlock deposited on the sofa before he dropped into his own chair, exhausted, chest heaving against the tight bindings around his cracked ribs as his head fell back and he closed his eyes, calming himself. 

Mrs. Hudson moved quietly, openly worried as she made tea and brought it to John the way he liked it, dragging over an ottoman and helping him put his leg up. Her fingers fluttered over John’s face, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, tears in her eyes, “So very good to have you boys home,” she whispered, touching her fingers to her lips and making a small sound of distress. She was out of the room in a hurry, touching Greg’s shoulder before disappearing down the stairs. 

Greg settled in, carefully taking the desk chair. His position gave him a better view of Sherlock’s face, the medics having placed him on the sofa facing the window. He watched Sherlock dozing as he spoke softly to John, “Can I get you anything? Need anything delivered to take care of... of _him_?”

Sherlock stirred and opened his eyes at Greg’s voice. “Hell is Greg Lestrade in my flat as I come down. Piss off. I’m off, out as soon as I can stand again. Meddling bastard. Tell Mycroft he can bugger right the fuck off too.” He groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t even looked over to see John, honestly believing the man had been a drugged hallucination and thinking little of it.

“Just go away. I’m not going to rehab and you stupid bastards won’t convince me John is alive. That was a low trick, for the lot of you.”

John stared at the back of Sherlock’s head, realizing the berk had no idea he was there, his position keeping John hidden. He set his jaw and looked over to Greg, waving a hand silently in a bid for him to just go, just please go. 

Greg watched John, eyes narrowed for a moment before he relented, silent as he got up and seemingly complied with Sherlock. He’d stop and give a bit of warning to Mrs. Hudson on his way down, keeping her from floating up for now, with instructions to call him if the men came to blows. 

John kept silent, a finger on his split lip, wishing his face weren’t so battered, waiting for Sherlock to realize on his own that he was sitting right there.

Sherlock watched Greg go before he sat up slowly and looked around the flat. He ignored John on his first pass through and then his eyes zeroed back in on him. “Why are you still here? You’re an annoying hallucination, y’know that? You couldn’t have come to me _intact_?” He muttered, eyes touching on John’s leg and the crutches. He stuck his feet on the coffee table, watching as John’s medical journals scattered to the floor as his boots haphazardly shoved things out of his way.

Sherlock’s head swam suddenly and he groaned, feeling ill and scrubbing his face. “Tea, right, tea and then leaving. Hate this place. It reeks of you. So damn tired of being reminded of you, John. You’re all I’ve thought about since that day. I can’t do this anymore, distracting, intolerable.” He looked back up, his expression taking John’s breath away.

“Just _go away_. Quit haunting me, _please_.” Sherlock’s voice was haunted itself as he spoke to John. He stared at him as if willing him to disappear, deep, purpled bruising under his sunken eyes telling John more than enough of his physical and mental state. “You aren’t real, go away!” His voice started taking on a slightly frightened quality, as though reality might bleed away completely any moment and leave him utterly unhinged with the ghost of his best friend.

John slowly dropped his hand down to the armrest, watching Sherlock carefully. It was so incredibly surreal to be sitting in his chair and listening to Sherlock rave once again, regardless of the manic nature of this particular rant. He licked his lip, worrying one of the many coppered valleys that fists and his teeth had worked into the delicate flesh over his weeks of captivity. He drew a deep, slow breath and began to explain as best he could.

“I understand I was listed as MIA with a KIA rider. Mycroft presumed the worst. I’m right here, Sherlock. Right here.” His voice was low and gravelly, hardly above a whisper as worked the damaged cords. “I found you by the Thames, and now you’re home. If I was going to haunt your sorry arse, it would not be like this.”

Sherlock stared at him, letting it all slowly click into place. All the evidence that John was actually tangible and present he’d been too drugged and afraid to process, “John?” He scrambled to his feet, over the coffee table flailing wildly before falling to his knees at John’s feet. He slowly reached out to touch John’s face, finger brushing along his jaw. 

“Christ... .” He sat back on his heels, blinking at John, suddenly exploding.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!? AFGHANISTAN AGAIN!? REALLY!? Damn it, John.. you WERE ALMOST KILLED AGAIN!”

He was gesticulating wildly as he bellowed at John’s feet, taking a deep breath and suddenly calming, the switch in mood abrupt and most likely drugged fueled, his shouting still ringing in John’s good ear.

“Idiot! Stupid... of all the bloody things to do...” Sherlock trailed off, panting as he stared up at John.

John listened to Sherlock raving, watching him perform his theatrics as he shouted to the heavens without so much as flinching. A quiet, seeping anger curling around the relief of Sherlock’s survival twisting through his veins. His jaw tingled where Sherlock had touched him and his fingers slowly curled in on themselves, palms sweating as he wrestled with far too many things at once.

John’s bicep twitched, restraining himself from just throwing a punch. This was not John as Sherlock remembered him. This was John just back from hardened combat, the blood of other men fresh in his memory, the damage of harsh fists and rough men painted across his body. He wore an effective, defensive armor tight around his heart. 

He let his functioning eye fall closed for a moment as he gathered himself, lips parting as he breathed the only warning he could. “You need to step away from me, Sherlock,” in an effort to protect the man from him, aware that he was losing his grip on his composure.

“I’m not going anywhere you bloody fool.” Sherlock did scramble to his feet, swaying slightly. He yanked the hair out of the short ponytail it was in, barely enough to pull back, but enough all the same. “You _bastard._ ” he spit the word at John. “You gave up on me!”

Sherlock effected a mock tone, lilting John’s words from rote recall. “But please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be... dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it... Stop this.” Sherlock quoted, eyes flashing angrily. “But no, you just gave up on me... All the time you’ve watched me and you _gave up!_ ”

Sherlock’s fist clenched at his side as he ranted at John.

John sucked in a sharp breath as a flash of heat gave way to dripping, acidic cold across his cheeks and down his belly, listening Sherlock spit John’s graveside grief back at him, gutting him. He gasped at the unexpectedly vicious play, shocked silent for a moment. His hearing snapped up to a single, dizzying tone, forgetting to breathe as Sherlock’s cruelty managed to punch the air from his lungs. 

He was propelled to his feet without thought. Pain arced up his leg as he stepped down hard on the plaster, leaning into the swing with shoulder and flank, connecting solidly with Sherlock’s wagging jaw. Hours upon hours of renewed physical training and bodily demands having returned most of his youthful strength.

“ _Damn you_ , Sherlock Holmes,” he grit out, burning pressure behind his eyes as his vision blurred. He’d expected Sherlock to be blasé about this, perhaps, but not cruel. Not only had Sherlock survived, but he’d been there, listening, as John said the most painful goodbye of his life. And here he was _mocking him with it_.

Sherlock yelped as John’s fist connected with his jaw and wheezed desperately as he hit the ground. He went sprawling, skittering across the floor. When he stopped after a tiny distance, he stared up dumbly at the ceiling, wincing as he worked his jaw back and forth for a moment. Not broken... bruised though; it was going to properly smart later.

He slowly brought himself up to his elbows and turned his attention to John, chin smarting but otherwise alright. “You did say you had bad days...” The smirk he gave John was so very close to his old, familiar one.

Had John anywhere else to go, he’d have gone. As it was, he stood rooted in place, shoulders heaving and eyes burning as he worked to calm down, staring at Sherlock. His ribs slowly began to ache, reminding him that he was an utter idiot for twisting as he had to throw the punch. 

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He should have simply shut up and sat down, but his anger demanded he feed it and he uncurled a single finger from his fist, jabbing it towards Sherlock. 

“I _gave up_ on you? Are you _off it,_ Sherlock? You were dead, or don’t you recall?” he hissed, his good leg finally reminding him that he needed to recover before he could be so physical, sinking back into his chair. 

Sherlock couldn’t leave well enough alone as he looked down at himself. He sucked in a loud breath, then felt for his pulse. “No. Clearly alive. Where _did_ you get your medical degree again?” 

He crawled back to John after a minute, kneeling back in front of him, shifting gears abruptly again, peering at him, “Took you to task properly, more than once. Plaster, wrapped ribs. Concussed? Likely.” His brain was firing more and more as he gazed at his friend, waking up from the drugged fog. Lost in taking him in, switching gears from the anger that had seized him so suddenly, he raked his eyes over the damage done to John, putting it all together.

“You can’t possibly make it to your room, take my bed. I’ll stay on the sofa...”

“Take your-” John began, incredulous, jaw snapping shut. Sherlock, naturally, had assumed John left his things as they were, as though he’d expected him back. He huffed an empty laugh, shaking his head slowly, looking anywhere but at his oddly tanned face. 

“You don’t _have_ a bed. Your room has been my room for a while now, I didn’t enshrine you, I _buried_ you and came back home.” 

He curled his fingers tight, forcing himself to breathe, his grip on his composure slipping. 

Sherlock huffed at that and shrugged, “Expensive mattress to throw out...” He stood, shakily and started turning off lights in the flat, peeking into John’s room, “Typical.” He wandered back to the sofa and sat, gazing across the space at John, “Well, then, that’s settled in any case isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed as he thought back to everything he’d done over the past eighteen months. He shrugged out of the coat and then yanked the t-shirt over his head. The still bright pink gash across his abdomen was the most noticeable. His skin was rather littered with scars now. A thinner, shorter knife track, a stab pucker in his bicep, the groove at the top of his left shoulder where the bullet grazed him.

He shook his head after a moment and rubbed his face. “I never meant to hurt you. Whatever else happens keep that in your mind, alright? And apologize to Molly, God knows what kind of shape she’s in. I know you’ve already yelled at her. You wouldn’t have been out looking for me otherwise... Dear God, thought I was hallucinating.”

John stared at him, taking in the damage peppered across Sherlock’s body, ensuring none of it needed his immediate attention before carefully pushing himself up, his ribs well and truly angry with him now. He left the crutches against his chair, awkwardly moving to his room without another word. Mrs. Hudson had gone to the trouble of settling clean sheets on his bed, which he gratefully sank down to. 

He sank to his bed, the surreal quality of _home_ layering on top of everything else. He reached down slowly, eyes unfocused across the room, and hauling his leg up onto the mattress, awkwardly propping it up before laying back. He swallowed down pain tablets and antibiotics. Finally he was still, one arm behind his head, the other cradling his ribs as he stared up at the dark ceiling. 

For a while his mind was simply blank, refusing any information that flit across it, rejecting the insanity of the last few weeks entirely. He blanketed in the comforting delusion that he’d never left, Sherlock had never jumped, and all was as it ever had been. 

It was another half hour before silent tears began to drip off his temples, heavy and exhausted with the culmination of _everything_. 

Sherlock tossed and turned uncomfortably on the sofa, punching the union Jack under his head, shifting and rearranging himself before giving it up and standing, intent on a shower to soothe his raw nerves, itching hard for the needle. The next week or two was going to be hell... He briefly considered checking himself in somewhere to help him detox and then swiftly dismissed the notion as he pictured the small white room and dimwitted staff that would have control of him. 

He stumbled into the lav, the tile cold under his feet, flicking on the lights and wincing as his pupils scrambled to adjust, putting up a hand to shield himself as pain lanced across his head. He waited where he stood for the feeling to pass, finally dropping his hand and closing the door behind him. Little had changed. Different towels hung, a manual toothbrush sat beside the sink instead of Sherlock’s electric, but aside from that, all was as he remembered it. He walked over and turned the taps, waiting until the steam was curling up over the curtain. He sighed as the shower relaxed him. He was exhausted. 

When he finally shut off the taps, nerves soothed enough to relax, he was basically asleep on his feet. He moved automatically, without thought, reaching out by muscle memory for a towel and working through the motions of drying himself before sliding into his boxers again, dragging a hand over his eyes as he plodded to the door and shut off the light, heading for his bed.

He wandered into his room and sat on the edge of the bed, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes sleepily, wondering if he’d wake up from this nightmare in the morning.

The bed, of course now belonging to John, who had manage to drift down into a shallow, distressed sleep. His mind had pulled him into slumber and deposited him on the cave floors, dancing the trauma of his captivity across the front of his mind. He was already covered in a thin sheen of sweat, lips moving soundlessly as he walked through the damage. 

And then suddenly someone was at his side, the bed he was on moving, and he snapped harshly awake, screaming, blankets catching as he thrashed away, dropping himself right off the edge of the bed. The jarring impact only served to prolong the shadows of his dreams, making him question if it had been dreams at all, panic flared hard through his veins; dust and gunpowder choking him as he struggled to breathe, hands going to his throat, expecting brutal hands. 

“Enough!” he shouted, scrambling back in the darkness, the pain sliding up his leg reminding him he was powerless to run, breathing crazed and too shallow.

Sherlock was over the bed in seconds, “John!” He stopped short of touching him. “John, wake up. Damn it, wake up. You’re home, you’re safe. Come on, wake up and punch me again if it’ll make you feel better.” He knelt by John’s hip, openly concerned, trying desperately to explain himself in his unsettled regret at having scared John so badly.

“I forgot this isn’t my room anymore. I took a shower and wandered in here to sleep. Muscle memory. I just forgot. It’s alright. I-I’m sorry, John.”

It took John a moment of puzzled confusion to realize what was going on, blinking with his good eye at Sherlock in the low light. It was too dim to properly see him, and his vision was swimming while his body screamed at him for moving as he had. He swallowed and slowly reached out, fingers connecting solidly with Sherlock’s shoulders.

His breathing caught and his grip tightened, holding fast to Sherlock’s bicep, hands shaking terribly as he wrestled to calm down, swallowing against the bile in his throat.

“I’m going to get you up... alright? Is that okay?” He gently pried John’s finger’s from his bicep and ever so gently slid his arms under his shoulders. “Hold on.” He waited until John had him around the neck and he lifted. Months of running, chasing, and catching had paid off. Even with the weeks spent in the gutter, he’d managed to stay strong. 

He settled John on the bed and, in Sherlock’s typical disregard of personal space, simply crawled in after him without hesitation, not breaking physical contact. “You’re home, John, you’re safe... you’re safe.” He sighed heavily as he held John. “Do you need anything? I did not intend to frighten you.”

John was on his side next to Sherlock, his body back away from the man, though his hands reached out and wrapped around Sherlock’s bicep. He tipped his forehead down against Sherlock’s shoulder, shivering with a combination of abating adrenaline and pain. He was silent until he mastered his breathing. 

“I’m so angry with you,” John whispered into the dark, one hand giving up Sherlock’s bicep to rake across his own hair, deciding he really didn’t give a damn what this looked like, “don’t leave.” 

John rolled slightly to his back, reaching out for the bottle of Co-dydramol, the rattle of the pills against the plastic bottle giving away how unsteady his hands were. He thumbed the lid off and downed two before capping it again and dropping the bottle beside him on the bed. 

“How severe do you anticipate your withdrawal to be?” 

Sherlock sighed softly and pulled the covers over both of them as he rolled to his side and curled to John. “I know, you have every right to be angry. I’m not going anywhere.” He thought about John’s last question.

“I don’t know. I’m going to be angry, really, deeply angry for a lot of the same reasons you are. It’s going to come out. Thought about checking myself into one of Mycroft’s places. Might be too much for you to take in your state... not that I expect you to take care of me after... well after everything.” His fingers ghosted along his bruised jaw. “Given the circumstances that would be a bit much to ask, yeah?”

Sherlock ran a hand through his own shaggy hair.

“For whatever it’s worth. I did it to save you.”

“Please stop talking,” John murmured, the faint tendrils of anger creeping up over the dying panic. He was so tired, so completely exhausted and all he wanted was to lay beside Sherlock and not let him go. 

He tipped his head back to Sherlock’s shoulder and chewed at his lip before speaking again. “I don’t know that I can handle you staying somewhere else. I may kill you, but I’d rather you stay here if you’re willing to risk it. I saw your chest earlier, do you need medical attention?”

Sherlock looked down and blinked, “Sewed it myself, still looks that bad? I was in France and it needed doing. The rest of them, long healed, long forgotten.” Sherlock shrugged as he thought about it.

He leaned his head to John’s and sighed. “It’s ok, I won’t go anywhere, just... we’re going to scream at one another... maybe we should get Mycroft to give Mrs. Hudson a vacation?” He nuzzled his nose to John’s short hair, just content to lie there like that, paying no attention to what he did, just, enjoying being close to John.

John was already drifting back to sleep, calmer now that a warm body was beside him. Sherlock’s body, to be precise. He shivered a bit as Sherlock breathed so closely to him, gooseflesh blooming down the side of his face, irritating the bruising, though he didn’t really care. Sherlock was on John’s most damaged side. It was... oddly comforting to have him there. 

“Yeah vacation’s- a good idea,” he mumbled, unconsciously shifting closer, clinging to Sherlock’s arm. “Just stay here? Don’t... don’t fade away on me,” his voice dropped off as he fell into sleep. 

Sherlock was running on fumes and emotion, just so glad John was back. He sighed as he slipped to sleep beside him, his hand curled around John’s hip gently. He wasn’t letting him go, not again.

Hours of calm slipped past without activity, the pair of them resting parallel to one another, before John came awake sharply and silently, slick with sweat, his stomach quivering as his eyes snapped open and swept the room. 

_Home_. He was home. The bedside clock read half four. John groaned and eased away from Sherlock, hobbling carefully to the lav and making it just in time to violently sick up. The force of it made him dizzy as stars popped along his vision, his concussion furious with the sudden change in position and rise in his blood pressure. God, he felt horrible. 

He remained as quiet as possible, loathing to wake Sherlock up just yet. He’d be in steady withdrawal by now, and John did _not_ have the capacity to handle that at the moment. 

Suddenly cold, John glared down at the plaster supporting his ankle before turning on the taps to the bath, nearly as hot as they would go. He winced as he tugged off his clothes, taking a moment in front of the mirror to asses himself. He looked like a bloody rugby team had been at him. 

With a sigh and a shrug, he hobbled over to the tub and awkwardly eased himself in, arse down to the porcelain, legs dangling out sideways, back to the tile. It was absurd, but it felt amazing and he really couldn’t be bothered to care. 

\---

Sherlock tossed in the bed, seeking out the warmth that had been there. He curled himself into the heat John left behind and let out a soft sound of distress before easing back mostly asleep. He was vaguely aware of John in the flat and the taps running. He sighed heavily as his dreams sucked him back under.

_He was running, again, always running. This damn jungle... A bullet went careening into a tree near his head, splinters bursting into the air around his face. He cursed and changed direction. How the hell was he going to get out of this one? Then he saw it. He changed direction again and dove behind the vine covered rock. He heard his pursuers go racing by and stepped silently out behind them as they crashed through. He brought the pistol up and shot. Leg wound, he’d walk again, if Sherlock left him alive._

_The other one turned and Sherlock shot again, fatal this one. He stalked to the wounded man, barking out orders in Portuguese to stay down. He crunched a heel into the wound even as he pointed his pistol at the man’s head._

_“Where are the rest?”_

_The man shook his head and Sherlock ground down again. The man screamed, sending a flurry of activity up and out of the trees nearby._

_“Where, are, the, rest?!”_

_The man babbled out an address and Sherlock backed off. He was turning when a flurry of movement caught his eye and the man brought the pistol up and shot._

Sherlock sat up in bed with a half-strangled cry, hand over the groove in the top of his left shoulder. He was panting, nauseous. His stomach churned and he felt along his forehead. After a moment he was out of bed and across to the lav. He barely even registered John before becoming violently ill.

John was up and out of the tub as fast as he could manage, sloshing about, swearing and dripping all over the place until he managed to get to his feet and throw a towel around his waist. He dropped down to the edge of the tub and put a hand on Sherlock’s back, sweeping his hair out of his face.

He waited at Sherlock’s side, just trying to soothe him with a steady presence and gentle touches until Sherlock’s stomach settled down and the heaving stopped. An offered wet cloth and a glass of water were in his shaking hands and he turned them both over to Sherlock, easing to the floor beside him before John’s own legs gave out and he fell. 

Sherlock was still panting somewhat as he sipped at the water. His voice was shaky, “Sorry... didn’t know you were in here. Thanks.” He wiped himself with the cloth as he tried to steady his breathing. “If you want me to go, just... throw me out. Don’t suppose it’s really my flat anymore is it?”

He leaned back against the sink, exhausted. He sighed as he scratched at the stubble on his face. 

“It’s going to be a long week...”

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m not having you out.” John admonished, securing his towel better before leaning in and tugging at Sherlock’s shirt. “Off with this, let me see.” 

Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor beside them. He looked down at his skin and huffed slightly, “I really did a shite job with that one. Better than trying to find someone to do it quietly in France though...” He traced fingertips along several scars before relaxing again and letting John look him over.

“I feel like crap.” He whined as his head knocked back a bit against the sink, thumping softly a few times.

John’s lips thinned to a tight line as he got his first proper look at Sherlock, allowing himself a moment of emotional reaction, fingers reaching out to trace along a few of the lines. “You were shot,” he muttered, dipping a finger into the grove over his shoulder before trailing down his bicep, “and stabbed,” he added with a sad shake of his head. He dropped his attention over the littered scars that had faded to white, giving his focus over to the newest line at Sherlock’s gut.

“Christ, Sherlock, did you do this left handed?” he quipped at the jagged thing. It could be repaired, but it would have to be opened up again. Time for that later, if at all.

Shakily John got to his feet and plucked open the medicine cabinet, dropping back down too fast and pressing a hard hand to the side of his head, dizzy. He thrust the aspirin at Sherlock and muttered, “four,” instructing him to take a higher dose than normally indicated, as he blinked his eye back into focus. 

“My left hand was not as steady as I would have liked, no, but yes, my work.” He popped open the aspirin after a moment of fiddling with the lid and out far too many, struggling to put them back before winding up with four. He swallowed them with the water John had given him.

“Shot, yes, stabbed, sliced. Caught a sword to the calf, just nicked me though...”

He looked thoughtful as he ran through the catalog of injuries and then shrugged.

“You’re here. I’d say it was worth it.”


	5. Chapter 5

John was in far too much pain and feeling much too weak to do this now. Pained anger shot through him and he looked away, slowly getting to his feet.

“Don’t put that on me. Don’t,” he warned Sherlock, gripping the counter hard as he made his way out of the lav and back into his room, struggling to the dresser to fish out something to wear. He chose a soft, worn t-shirt and the baggiest pair of sweats he owned, dropping to the side of the bed to try and tug them on over the plaster.

A string of expletives later, he sat there breathing harsh, hands curled tight in the bedding at his sides, willing his stomach to calm enough to take his pain killers.

Sherlock shrugged in defeat as he remained on the floor. He was too tired and feeling entirely too shaky to argue with John right now, his body screaming for chemicals he was not going to get. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, attempting to come up with a plan before finally pulling himself up and wandering back into the room, “Calling Mycroft to have supplies dropped off. What do you need?”

He was so bitterly angry with John, standing there with his shoulders tight and his fists curled, clearly spoiling for a fight. John’s words had pricked wounds. Sherlock had not intended to put his condition on John. He’d meant them sincerely. Having John by his side was worth every new scar he’d earned, he’d treasure the damn things so long as John was safe.

John watched him warily, sighing as he shook his head. _Damn it_.

“I don’t need anything. All of your things are in storage, if you want them. I did not throw anything out except for the fridge. Don’t put body parts in the new one, okay? I’ll get you a separate one if you must,” he rejoined, the edge of anger on his tongue.

Sherlock huffed and moved out of the room to text Mycroft before storming into the unnervingly clean kitchen. He stopped up short at the entrance, sweeping his eyes across the room that was now almost foreign without his microscope and various clutter. He shivered and shook it off, spine tingling for a fix, copper at the back of his cottoned mouth. His fingers shook as they moved along the cabinets, searching for tea things, banging about in agitation. 

He returned after a while, setting a mug of tea down for John, and nearly spilling it on his trembling fingers, before stalking back out. It was Sherlock’s small way of apologizing for being a prat, even though he’d likely continue to be one, so long as he was in withdrawal. 

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock nearly flew down the stairs, his knees shaky beneath him, tripping him up on the last step. He snapped at Mrs. Hudson to get back into her flat as he flung open the main door. One of Mycroft’s lackeys stood there, looking bored with an armload of packages. Sherlock accepted them, looking down at them as he absently slammed the door shut again without a word. He closed his eyes at the promise of relief and sprinted up the stairs to John’s old room with the parcels. 

John clearly had not been up for a very long time. The door was stiff on its hinges and when he clicked the light on, a thin whisper of dust coated the hard wood. John’s old bed sat center as it always had, stripped down of course. There were stacks of forgotten books in the corner, a few hangers still in the closet. 

It would have to do. It very suddenly and startlingly occurred to him that he’d broken into the flat several times since returning, never realizing John had shifted rooms. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been so stupidly high. Of course John hadn’t thrown his mattress out, he’d simply taken it over. When he wasn’t withdrawing out of his skin, he’d think on the implications of that. 

He hated this part: one moment crawling out of his skin, the next so painfully thirsting for sleep it nearly made him cry, his brain scattering to the four corners in between. He dug through one of the packages, raking through clothes and books until he heard the rattle of pills. He sighed as his fingers curled around the bottle and he pulled it out and up to look at the label in the light. More aspirin? Mycroft had only sent aspirin. His brother had pointedly ignored his request for something stronger to ease his symptoms. It was a direct insult, meant to sting. Oh, how it succeeded.

The bottle exploded against the wall across the room, pills scattering across the dust on the floor as his screams echoed around the room, cursing his damned brother. 

John’s head shot up from the pillows as the sound of the pills shattering preceded Sherlock’s furious shouting. His stomach dropped and every pit of anger bled away at Sherlock’s distress. He got up off the bed hobbled painfully to the door, shoulder rising overly high as he compensated for his leg. He managed to get out into the hall and leaned heavily against the wall at the base of the stairs that led to his former room. He stared up the dark flight of stairs, swiftly putting the idea that he could surely make it up them out of his mind. There was just no way. He cleared his throat and called up loudly, “Sherlock?” He managed, his voice rough, “Come down here, let me help.”

Sherlock stopped his frantic pacing at the sound of John’s voice and furiously stormed out of the room, loudly clamoring down the stairs, stopping just short of John and eyeing him as he breathed too fast and gripped the corner of the wall tight enough to blanch his knuckles. “How can you help? You can barely _stand_. I just going to devolve into a raving lunatic over the next twenty-four hours, and it will be _days_ before I’m out of this.”

His jaw was working in furious agitation, “Mycroft. He sent fucking aspirin. ASPIRIN JOHN! That’s it!”

John closed his eyes as that cut sliced right down to his core. Sherlock was _vicious_ when withdrawing. “I can stand just fine, it’s this fucking plaster that makes it tricky. You can piss right off with mocking me, Sherlock, I was shot and tortured, give me a break. Now come _lie down_ and let me help you with your symptoms. I have something of yours that may help once you’ve got your addled mind a little calmer. Go lay down, I know you’re agitated, and I just want to help fix it. Could you for now, just pretend that you trust me, just for a little while,” he answered, already pushing Sherlock into his room, feeling miserable and angry but determined to see Sherlock through this. 

Sherlock resisted the guiding hand. His face contorted with bitter anger before the fury bled away to open hurt. Sherlock took a staggered step back as though John had physically struck him. His voice rumbled, deep and low. “I’ve never trusted anyone _but_ you, John.

He shook his head sadly and turned to move to John’s room, slowly sinking to the side of John’s bed -his old bed- the ache of John’s words wrapped around him. 

John followed him into his room, keeping himself quiet for the benefit of peace. Sherlock’s claim of his trust towards John was so absurd he could scarcely tolerate it. If he’d trusted John, none of this would have happened in the first place. John sank into the chair beside the door and stared at Sherlock for a moment, a bit taken aback by the hurt in Sherlock’s expression. 

“I’m tired, just- I’ll go. I’m sorry.” Sherlock stood, shaking his head and raking a hand through his curls, “Should have never bloody come back in the first place.” He glared at John and pointed a finger at him, “You. Just- stay.” 

“Enjoy the flat, enjoy life. Whatever.”

Sherlock had never told John about the hell of his withdrawals, about. the mercurial nature of the process. It was ever-shifting and he was never in any one state for long. He was passive-aggressive, aggressive, manipulative, and sometimes just downright cruel for the sake of it. He became violent, though never towards anyone else; he took to thrashing rooms and furniture. Mycroft had long ago taken to locking his violin in a safe when Sherlock would rage, leaving him a cheaply made excuse of a violin in its place.

John was on his feet, terrified that Sherlock may actually leave, angry with the situation. He boldly reached out and put his hands on Sherlock to stop him. 

“Sit _down_ , Sherlock. You are _not_ leaving me here. You are not going out to score, you are not going to bloody pitch yourself in the Thames. Enough! Sit. Down.”

He pushed Sherlock hard towards the bed, ruthlessly shoving aside aches of his body as his military bearing easily rose up. Sherlock was laughably tame compared to the men John had been handling in recent months. Whatever he could throw, John could take.

“You are going to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, or so help me god I will sedate you into next week. Don’t test me right now, Sherlock. I’m not myself. I’ll not lose you again.”

Sherlock sat on the bed again, having narrowly escaped winding up in the floor from John’s handling. He looked like a petulant child before snapping, “You never lost me to begin with you bloody fool! I’ve always been coming back home. Coming back to _you_.” He clamped his mouth shut after that. He refused to look at John’s face, merely folding his arms across one another, sulking. 

He would not have his current condition drag out all _those_ feelings. Ones he’d tamped down and locked in the back of his mind so often. John was healing, he was in withdrawal. He refused, would not let his brain go there.

He looked back at John, venomous words out before he could stop them, “Why do you even care? It’s not like you’re my biggest fan right now.”

“You… _you_ -“ he cut off, furious, narrowly restraining himself from throwing another blow. “How about you apply that _massive intellect_ to a little critical thinking! Jesus _Christ_ , you are a child!”

Oh, now was _not the time for this_ but he could not help his anger, could not stop the flood of betrayal that burned like mercury in his veins. John’s fist curled tight at his side as he held his position, looming over Sherlock, wishing to hell and back he could open both of his eyes. It was hard to see Sherlock at his left, a blind spot he was helpless to.

“You never lost me either, and you thought I was dead for what? A month? Six weeks? Look what it did to you and I’ve been in this for _more than a year_ you selfish man! You made me watch you _kill yourself_ , do you understand? I couldn’t talk you down, I couldn’t stop you. All I could do was listen to you cry and then-“ He took a step back, oblivious to the tear that streaked heavy down his cheek. His voice lowered and he swallowed against the swelling in his throat.

“I understand why you did it now, Sherlock. You can’t just make the time I lived believing I wasn’t enough, believing I failed you so completely that you took your own life, disappear. I lived that. I was _so angry_ when I woke up in hospital yesterday, I thought that I would _finally_ -“

He stopped and raked a hand through his hair, breathing through his nose, heart tripping over itself.

Sherlock suddenly reached out, mindful of John’s injuries, and wrapped his arms around John’s waist. He pulled him forward until John was standing between his knees, and he tipped his face forward, pressing it against John’s abdomen. He was silent for a moment, tears quietly falling before his shoulders shook and he lost hold of a gut-wrenching sob. _Damn this_ , he thought bitterly to himself, loathing the crippling sadness withdrawal left him nearly helpless to. 

Sherlock’s reaction instantly derailed John. He froze, muscles locking tight, tension ripping through him as Sherlock clung to him and wept.

_Wept._

“Okay Sherlock… it’s… it’s alright,” he stammered, patting the man lightly on the back. He needed a painkiller like he needed air, it had been far too long and he’d forced himself to move way too much to remain unmedicated.

“Listen let’s, I’ve got- here, just calm down. Breathe, Sherlock,” he tried, entirely out of practice with his softer bedside manner. He was sharp around the edges from this last tour; honed and stony, too many bodies and too many months without the ability to offer comfort, needing his own measure and too bitter to ask.

“Calm down, Sherlock… it’s alright.”

Sherlock’s back rose and fell slowly as he did his best to comply, releasing John’s hips before curling himself into John’s bed, murmuring apologies over and over, though for exactly what, he wasn’t even sure of himself. His fingers curled around the bottle of painkillers on the bedside table and held it up to John, who was clearly in agony and working hard enough to have broken a sweat in his efforts to keep a handle on it. 

“I-I’m ok, just, just take care of you. I’m sorry.”

He handed John the bottle and then proceeded to bury himself down into the bedding, hiding from all of it.

John took the pills without protest, hands shaking horribly now. He moved to the side of the bed and pulled his night table open, fetching out a long disused bottle. He tipped two of the tiny tablets into his hand and then got up, hobbling to the sink and fetching water. His shrink had written him a generous script for Valium, one he only dipped into once. The medication would work wonders on Sherlock’s strung out nerves.

“Come back a minute,” John said gently as he eased down on the side of the bed Sherlock had burrowed into, plucking the pillow off his head. He held out the water and the pills. 

“Take these for me,” he instructed, pain forcing his voice low and rough. He waited for him to comply, little beads of water escaping over the rim of the glass despite his efforts to hold steady.

“Damn Mycroft, Sherlock, let me help you,” he whispered at Sherlock’s hesitation, voice cracking somewhat.

Sherlock took the pills gratefully and swallowed them with the offered water. Voice hoarse and wavering, he whispered to John. “Thank you, John, for everything.” He was sitting up now, shaggy hair absolutely everywhere. Curls somewhat hilariously haloing his head.

He leaned forward without thinking, resting his head against John’s, “Just don’t stay angry with me forever, _please_.”

He sighed as his eyes closed and hesitated before he drew back a bit, looking at John, “You need rest...” He scratched at the stubble on his face, wincing as he hit the bruise from the night before. “ _Christ_... I forgot how hard you swing.”

John stared at Sherlock a few moments more before getting up and moving back to his spot on the bed, picking up his leg, a sharp sound of pain slipping away from him as he tried to settle it on the pillows. The protruding toes were shiny with swelling, the limb throbbing now that the pressure was off it. John curled his fists tight and grit his teeth as the pain washed over him, easing slowly to his back. He kept himself inclined, propped high enough to read, low enough to sleep; the position making breathing easier with the state of his ribs.

John clicked off the bedside light and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, hissing as the swelling along his cheekbones flared at him. Pain had put John on the edge of tears, eyes stinging and throat tight.

Sherlock instinctively curled to John as he laid back down. He closed his eyes, hand reaching out to gently touch John, as though reassuring himself John was really there. He sighed softly as he tried to relax. The pills started to do their job and he was finally able to withdraw into his own mind. 

He stilled his shifting beside John as he let his brain try to sort itself out, trying to override the physical manifestations of the withdrawal. He’d never cared about those though. He cared about the havoc it wrought on his mind when he went the route he’d gone the past few weeks.

When Sherlock went still, John broke. Hands over his face, silent in his bitter grief, he cracked apart. The pressure hurt, his ribs screaming at him as he contained himself.

John had no idea how much time passed as he simply caved to the agony, his mind blank, firing random images at him and wrapping his heart in a tight vice. He fell asleep sobbing, his breathing catching even as he dropped off, hands going limp at his sides.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock came to a couple of hours later, Valium still humming in his system, blanketing his nerves. He edged closer to John before he was aware of his own movement, pulled to John without understanding, eyes still closed. He stilled, pulling a slow, deep breath, savoring the reality of John being right at his side rather than some distant wish. He blearily looked at the clock... hours still remained of the first 24 in withdrawal. He had no idea how he was going to make through this time, other than the comfort of John’s presence.

His focus shifted to John, eyes cataloging damage done to him in captivity, each wound settling heavily on Sherlock's shoulders. This was all on him. John had gone back to war because Sherlock had disappeared… not even that; Sherlock had killed himself as John tried to talk him off the roof, or at least that was the understanding John had lived with. The thought made Sherlock sink his teeth into his lip until his eyes were watering and the skin nearly ripped. He shook his head, overwhelmed, and pulled back the heavy duvet on his side, climbing out of bed with stealth and grace. He slipped out of the room and made his way up the stairs. 

Sherlock walked into John’s old room, bare feet crunching on the scattered tablets of aspirin that his last outburst had strewn about. He did not flick on a light, or lay out the bedding, he simply crawled up on John’s bare mattress, sprawling out on his back, letting the dark ceiling come slowly into focus. His breathing was slow and level as his mind wrapped around all the data, figures and input registering, a steady stream from the corner of his eyes, dripping silently into his curls as he let it all reach up and pull him under. 

The floor below, John slowly surfaced, heavy and gritty from the tears that saw him to sleep, aching to the core as his pain medication had worked out its half-life. He filled his lungs until his damaged ribs caught, slowly exhaling and opening his eyes, turning immediately to Sherlock.

John’s heart plummeted as he was alone, instantly terrified that Sherlock had fled the flat.

“Oh god. Sherlock?!” He called out, gentle at first, in case Sherlock were just in the lav. When there was no reply, his panic kicked into high gear. John bolted up, his head spinning with the sudden change in position. He shook it off, ignoring his body as he stumbled out of bed, hobbling to the lav to ensure Sherlock hadn’t passed out in there. He cursed when he found it empty, moving to the door as fast as he could, all but falling into the sitting room. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone. When his fingers refused to still enough to let him send a text, he gave up, muttering under his breath for Greg to _pick up the damn call_ , horrific scenario after horrific scenario playing out for him as he waited, imagination running wild, offering him Sherlock dead on the pavement again and again. He panicked as the phone rang against his ear, screaming at the top of his lungs for Sherlock once more.

Sherlock sat up at the first sound of his name, listening carefully as he scrambled to his feet. John’s voice rapidly grew in desperation, making Sherlock’s fingers shake on the door he’d finally closed, struggling in his worry to reopen it. When John screamed his name, an exact echo of how he’d sounded when Sherlock’s feet left the roof, Sherlock finally wrenched the door open and went barreling down the stairs. 

Sherlock reached for him without pause, John’s face tenderly in his hands. He inspected him gently, careful of all the bruising, terror and confusion pulling his own face long and shadowed as he tried to catch his breath, nearly frantic from the sound of John’s desperate shouting “What is it? John. Christ, are you okay?” 

John closed his eyes as Sherlock came around the landing of the upper stairs, “N-Never mind, Greg, sorry,” he breathed into the phone, leaning into Sherlock’s hands, heart hammering in his ears. He narrowly managed to get the mobile back into his pocket before sagging against Sherlock, nearly passing out.

“I thought…” he rasped, the room spinning around him. Sherlock had tears on his face, and John wondered suddenly if he was in pain. He’d ask him as soon as his legs would stop shaking so terribly. He reached out and twined his fingers in Sherlock’s shirt, sinking lower as his hearing muffled and the tang of copper rose up at the back of his throat.

Sherlock caught John as the man’s knees went out from under him. He tucked John’s head against his chest, whispering gently, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, John.” He made his way into the bedroom, the door still open wide from John’s frantic exit. Sherlock walked them to the edge of the bed until his knees bumped against it, leaning and setting John in the blankets. He looked at him critically for a moment before grabbing an extra pillow and propping it up under John’s leg, doing his best to make him comfortable. 

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock crawled into bed beside John. His narrowly contained nerves had been jarred by the scare, leaving him miserable. He rest his forehead against John’s shoulder, waiting until his pulse began to slow before speaking quietly. “I’m not going anywhere... you made it quite clear I’d be in for a meeting with your fist, at the very least, if I did.” He paused, breathing deeply, “That aside, I’ve had quite enough time away from you. I simply did not wish to disturb your sleep, as you so desperately require it to heal.”

He went silent, keeping his forehead in contact with John’s shoulder, exhausting himself with the effort of containing his nerves. 

John nodded, reaching a hand over his chest to gently touch his fingers to Sherlock’s hair, grateful for Sherlock’s words. 

“This damned ankle,” he rasped, reaching over with unsteady fingers for his painkillers. He’d missed a dose, and then been up racing about. His medical mind supplied that he was being a horrific patient as he doubled his dose and swallowed the tablets. He was going to kill himself like this for god’s sake. John closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, reaching out with one hand and curling his fingers over Sherlock’s wrist to get the man’s attention. 

“Are you in pain?” he asked even as the room swam around him, making him ill. He groaned and pressed a hand to this face, sweating at his temples. “You were crying, there’s more…more Valium whenever you need it,” he managed, flexing his fingers for a moment, assuring himself he had a solid grip on Sherlock. 

Sherlock listened to him, brows knitting, until he remembered the damp trails John would have seen. “I have tears on my face because all of this is overwhelming, John. Trying to come down while you’re here, so injured, the input has got the best of me. The anger making us want to stab one another. Damn it, John, each mark, each injury you bear is on me...”

His eyes opened and he gazed at John, “Do you need a wet cloth? Gods, John, you need to be in hospital. You should have stayed in, even your premature discharge boils down to me.” His hand closed around John’s fingers at his wrist gently, stroking the backs of his knuckles automatically, giving no mind to the action. 

He leaned into John again, desperately clinging to the man beside him.

“’M not going back to hospital,” John rejoined, bristling at Sherlock’s words. Despite his tone, he did not release Sherlock’s wrist, nor did he try to move away from the man clinging to his side. He wasn’t angry with Sherlock, not really. He was in tremendous pain, and willed the meds to work faster. 

Slowly the room stopped pitching about, simply stretching out oddly at the angles now and again, far less nauseating. The warm ease of narcotics began shifting through his brain and he exhaled a stuttering breath, finding himself suddenly speaking without thinking, rattling off to Sherlock what happened.

“Was just going north for med support, the doc up there ate one… supposed to just be support… no idea they were huts and caves status as far as resources were concerned, thought I was going to another base. God, it was hell. They were so depleted they were reusing needles and literally shearing sheep for wool to staunch bleeds, actual bandages in painfully short supply. W-Was all absurd and then out on a evac-mission n’ was-a damn grenade and got s-separated… trying… trying to fix Peters that poor kid and captured.” He swallowed, pressing his hand harder over his eyes, savoring the burn on the left as panic grabbed his tongue and memory tied together sharp with his words. His chest was catching and caving with his efforts to calm himself down and get a lid on the panic. “They didn’t want _anything_ from us… just shot me and f-filmed…”

He took a deep, shattering breath and shut himself up, panic touching his heart in the wake of giving voice to the days and days in captivity, no clue why he was rambling as he was. “Wasn’t your fault you didn’t know I’d go back.” 

Sherlock reached up and touched John’s head gently, “I’ve got you... I’m so sorry, so sorry. I’ve got you though. We’ll get through all of this. I won’t make you go back to hospital. I’ll be mostly righted in another twenty-four, if we can make it that long without strangling one another.” He found himself pressing his lips to John’s shoulder, not even thinking about it, driven by the nearly desperate need to soothe him.

“You’re the most amazing person I know, John. The only thing that got me through some of my scrapes was thinking about how you’d handle them.”

John felt the kiss to his shoulder and went very, very still. He slowly peeled his hand away from his eyes, staring at Sherlock in open confusion.

Sherlock had just… laid a… he’d _kissed his shoulder._ Casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

John opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it, closing up and watching Sherlock carefully. He wavered for anything to say, treading lightly, neither of them in any shape to fight.

“You… look absurd with a tan.” He huffed a laugh at himself, surprised with what he’d gone with and not really caring.

Sherlock huffed at him, “Buenos Aries. Well at least part of it. Spent a good number of months in South America actually, during the summer of all times, damn my luck. Should have seen me a week after I got there. Spent four days laid up with the worst sunburn they’d seen in their lives.” 

He’d noticed when John froze earlier, taking a moment to put it all together, realizing that perhaps shoulder kissing was not a recognized norm between mates.

He chewed on his lip, not entirely sure what to make of the situation, opting for barreling ahead with the conversation. “Probably could do with a hair cut as well. Yours is too short.” he suddenly fussed. His fingers reached up and rubbed across the shorter version trim John had these days.

It was the first gentle touch John had been willing to entertain since Sherlock pitched himself off Bart’s. John was instantly leaning into Sherlock’s fingers, his chest catching as tears pricked their warning at the backs of his eyes. He just wanted to be John for a while. The familiar touch melted something hard in his chest, and he let slip a small sound of distress before dragging in a long, slow breath.

“I don’t want to fight with you right now,” he whispered, reaching out and wrapping a gentle hand over Sherlock’s bicep as his own composure began to crack. “Please…I-“

Sherlock curled close to John, letting his hand move down and curl against his hip. His voice was quiet, “I don’t want to fight either, can we just... can we just stay like this for now? Try and get through the worst of this? There’ll be time enough for everything else later, alright?”

He tucked his head against John’s shoulder and sighed softly. “Just... one more thing. I just have to say one more thing. Please.” He took a deep breath. “I missed you. I missed my friend, I missed all those looks you shot me when I was being rude. I missed… missed _everything_.” He swallowed hard, voice cracking, “Okay, okay... shutting up now.”

John pulled on him hard, tears quietly rolling down his cheeks, a wet inhale breaking on a sob as the narcotics pulled away his inhibitions and his restraint. He shifted to his side, his leg flaring with pain as he leaned hard into Sherlock, pressing his face down against the corner of Sherlock’s chest.

He curled his fingers tight in the material of Sherlock’ shirt and clung to him, his back flexing hard as he struggled to restrain another choked sob, the rush of endorphins overpowering him and pulling him down. “I can’t b-believe you’re _alive_ ,” he said against Sherlock’s chest, feeling like brittle glass. He struggled to press himself closer, forgetting himself, only wanting the close protection of his friend. 

Sherlock simply wrapped his arms around him without fanfare, behaving as though this were all normal and acceptable. As far as Sherlock was concerned, it _was_. He pressed his lips to the top of John’s head in a bid to soothe him. He sighed gently, calmer, “I can’t believe you’re alive, either.”

He gently stroked John’s hair as they curled up around one another. He murmured soothing words against the top of John’s head, trying to reassure him that they both would be ok. His nerves nerves were at him again, the combined stress of the early morning beginning to grate more than he could stand. “John, I need more Valium. I can’t- just give me a moment.” He untangled himself long enough to find the bottle, swiftly swallowing two tablets before settling himself back in as he had been with John. He pulled him in close, this new proximity both novel, and comfortable enough that they could have been like this for years. His fingers found their way into John’s overly-short hair, marveling at how soft it felt despite it’s nearly prickly appearance. Clearly the hospital had shaved it after he was brought in. 

John reached out to him with trembling fingers, curling his hands desperately around Sherlock’s bicep as he returned to the bed. Panic and memory were washing over him like a tidal wave and he groaned with the overwhelming force of it, nearly crawling on top of Sherlock at this point, shivering hard.. “I don’t want to sleep,” he whispered, feeling rather pathetic as the words slipped away from him.

John slowly sank down against Sherlock, his warmth and steady breathing soothing an exhausted Captain Watson down into sleep. John went still for a few minutes before violently jerking himself awake, adjusting his grip and pulling rather hard against Sherlock, clinging as though they both may slip away. He made a small sound of distress and tucked his head down to listen to Sherlock’s heart, staring at the wall opposite in an effort to keep from sleeping. 

Sherlock ran a careful hand down John’s back, trying to quiet him., “Just, talk to me then, talk to keep from going to sleep. Tell me about everything, about anything. Or I can talk to you. I met a woman in Portugal you’d have liked.” He huffed as the second portion of that memory reached up and punched him in the gut. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate me kidnapping her for you though.” He let loose a faint, self-deprecating laugh. He was avoiding whatever was going on in this physical shift between them; he wasn’t sure either of them were strong enough for whatever fallout might happen because of it. He could lose John for entirely different reasons, if this went south. 

The very idea of it sent a jolt of fear through Sherlock and he suddenly pulled John to him, whispering desperately, “Just, don’t...don’t go anywhere. I couldn’t bear it. I’ve got you, we’re ok, I’ve got you.” Sherlocks nerves were on fire both physically and emotionally, leaving him hollowed out and raw. He rest his lips against John’s forehead, desperate to soothe and protect the man beside him.

John was forcing himself to keep calm when Sherlock suddenly pulled at him, the rough and sudden handling far too close to hands that hurt and caves that choked the lungs with dust. Panic flared hard before he realized what was happening, abating to quiet desperation as Sherlock tucked him in close. Promises whispered to John of safety and stability were nearly more than he could bear, wanting them to be true far more than he should.. “I-“ he breathed, shaking his head and giving pretense, unable to find the will to care enough about appearances or proprietary, dragging a leg over Sherlock’s hip and basically laid flat on Sherlock’s chest. It was dark, and his head was spinning on terror and narcotics, and he just needed a little damn comfort after so much brutality.

Sherlock’s eyes closed as he held John. He sighed deeply, his own face pressed to John’s shoulder. He took a deep steadying breath, “We need, Christ, I know you don’t want to but we need the rest John, I’m about to crawl out of my skin.” He was silent for a moment before his fingers pressed slightly harder into John as he lay there, “Don’t you dare move, don’t go anywhere unless you’re uncomfortable though.”

The words were rapid, desperate. His voice was raw and full of things he couldn’t quite place or put name to.

John nodded, already near sleep anyhow despite his fear of the dreams that were sure to plague him. “I’d wish you luck shifting me, even if you didn’t want me here,” he whispered in return. “I’m so sorry you’re having such a hard time coming off. Tell me if the pain starts,” he added, voice heavy and words slurring as he shifted more comfortably, feeling somewhat like a child clinging so desperately to Sherlock. 

Sherlock laughed softly, “Rest. I’ll be here. I promise, I’ll tell you if I’m in pain.” He gentled his palm over John’s hair and closed his eyes, the Valium working beautifully on his nerves. He turned his head towards John as sleep crept in on him.

John slipped into sleep soon after, falling into a light doze instead of slipping into a deeper REM state. He did not dream, only startled awake from time to time to save himself from slipping deeper and dipping into a dream. 

Sherlock would stir slightly when John startled awake, murmuring nonsense and nuzzling against him soothingly. His grip would tighten momentarily, before slowly fading back out, making certain John wasn’t leaving.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he slept before he woke slowly, aware of the pleasant weight of John draped across him. He sighed and pressed a lingering kiss to John’s temple while he could. Maybe, eventually, they could address whatever this shift had been between them, this physicality which they had quite suddenly adopted. 

Staring up at the ceiling, he quieted his mind, allowing a rare moment of indulgence where he accepted and enjoyed without analyzing. John was still resting on him, and he was happy to lie like that for now.

“How are you feeling?” John's voice floated up against Sherlock's chest, heavy with exhaustion though he'd been awake for awhile. He adjusted his grip on Sherlock’s shirt, no intention of going anywhere. He was exhausted, the light doze having left him more wrung out that before he’d tried to rest.

Sherlock drew a deep breath, not having expected John to already be awake. “Mostly sound, though there is bit of pain. My brother and Lestrade both worked their networks to ensure all of my dealers were tapering the dose, weaning me slowly even while I was still in the streets.” He sighed softly, his muscles tensing slowly at the recall. His mind swiftly supplied him memory of those terrible days out scoring and slipping into a drugged haze, only to wake cold and miserable with his skin itching and his head pounding in some filthy back alley or seedy den. It slowly dawned on him that he was physically freezing. With a small sound of distress dying at the back of his throat, he curled tighter to John, burying his face against John’s shoulder, fingers curling tight over his shirt. 

John sucked in a sharp lungful of air. Sherlock was continuing their physically questionable shift in the cold light of day. When Sherlock pressed closer to him, nuzzling his face against John’s shoulder, John’s fingers shifted in a spontaneous movement to slide through the detective’s hair. He ruthlessly stilled himself as his heart raced, no longer able to pretend this change between them had been some drugged, exhausted one-off. 

He shifted enough to look down at Sherlock and wished for the thousandth time that his own face wasn’t so taken apart, missing the use of both eyes. “Sherlock?” He whispered quietly, clearly seeking out a meaning behind the affection.

There would be no more ignoring or putting off words they so clearly needed to share with one another. Sherlock's lips parted and closed silently, over and over, as he searched for the right way to go about explaining himself. He clicked his tongue in frustration, unaccustomed to anything short of articulate, “Give me a moment.” 

His closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, deciding on simple, unfiltered language. He hummed low and deep in his chest, keeping to the darkness behind his lids as he spoke softly. “I am under no delusions, John. I am exceedingly difficult to live with. I have taken your life and turned it on end; running you through the streets, pulling you into ridiculous danger, interfering in your social life…” he trailed off, his face falling for a moment before forcing himself on, determined to have this out, “and then I sent you away in panicked fear for our dear Mrs. Hudson…instructed you where to stand as I forced you to be my note, and pitched myself off a building as you desperately attempted to save my life…” 

His chest was buzzing with the trapped feel of it, unsettled and exposed, speaking so frankly of things his mind had sorted in the night as the withdrawal eased under John’s care, “When I was gone, it came into sharp relief, how very vital you are to my existence. Even while thousands of miles away I relied on you, conjuring up a facsimile in times of acute distress or cloying boredom. I found myself actively missing your steady presence...found you frequenting my dreams when I finally slept...John, I may not be the most adept at expressing it, but I do _care_ , more than I could possibly assemble into words.”

The usually eloquent Sherlock found himself at a loss. “I... I cannot bear to be separated from you. It nearly killed me when I was forced to leave as I did, and came closer still when I thought you dead.”

John listened as the butterflies in his stomach kicked up their flutter. “I- but you-“

He stopped himself and took a slow breath, his mind racing and his heart pounding. There were so many things he could say to the same. His life had ground to a halt. He’d been alone when he met Sherlock, and he’d been alone after he’d listened to Sherlock’s head crack open against the pavement. He could not speak as he let go of Sherlock’s shirt. He moved as though shifting some volatile chemical, painfully careful, reaching with trembling fingers to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw. He let the pads of his fingers rest there, adjusting to the touch as his ears began to ring with the frantic beating against his rib cage. He swallowed, looking up and catching Sherlock’s eye, before dropping his focus to Sherlock’s lips, a bit dazed and glassy-eyed with the surreal nature of this. In a Hail Mary move, he leaned in slowly and brushed their lips together.

Sherlock gave no thought to the hand that instinctively slid through John’s short hair, cradling the back of his head. Sherlock leaned into John as his mind raced to catalog the feel of this, holding still with his eyes wide and his heart beating far too fast. He slowly closed his eyes, sinking into the unanticipated bliss of John with him like this. Boldly he tasted John’s bottom lip with the very tip of his tongue, their mouths calm and soft with one another, slowly beginning to move as they shared breath and space and tactile emotion. 

He’d not anticipated this from his brilliant, _’I’m not actually gay’_ doctor. Grudging acceptance or -the more likely- repelled disgust followed by a swift show of the kerb, but not _this_. He nearly wept with the sheer, impossible relief of it. 

They broke apart slowly at the natural close of the exchange. Sherlock exhaled a wavering breath and swallowed against the swelling in his throat, his voice low and rough, “No more war, no more rooftops... I cannot bear- no. No more. Stay with me, John.”

John rolled his lip between his teeth, worrying the flesh as he processed everything. The show of emotion in Sherlock’s words, his declaration and request, sent John scattering to the winds. Deep fissures in fortifying walls of his composure began to crack open, leaving him weak and exposed. He gave Sherlock a tight nod of agreement, staring at his lips, suddenly _desperate_ for the man now that the walls were crumbling. His fingers slipped through Sherlock’s curls -just as soft as he’d imagined- pulling him back in for a proper kiss, lips parting and tongue tasting. 

John had been handled with such cruel violence, that Sherlock’s trusted, careful touch snapped something heavy and tight in his chest. He began to shake with the relief of it, having been in so much pain for so long that he’d forgotten how severe it hurt until it began to ease. He pulled in a startled, nearly panicked breath, breaking away from Sherlock’s lips as gooseflesh spread across his body and his nerves flared hard. Panic far after the event. 

“Please,” he whispered desperately, not sure exactly what he was asking for, “please... Sherlock. _Please,_ ” he repeated, the low burn of shame in his gut as he became aware of the tears tracking down his face, utterly powerless to stop them. 

Sherlock felt John coming apart in his arms, desperate to fix it, lost in how to do so. He moved suddenly, curling John close in an effort to shield him from the world. He pressed their lips together, soft and gentle at first, growing more hungry as the seconds ticked past and John trembled against him. He nipped at John’s lower lip, working the man’s mouth open to him, kissing him hungrily as his own eyes burned. 

He drew back enough to gaze down at John before dipping his head and nibbling along John’s jaw. He tucked his face down to John’s neck, breathing in the scent of him before his lips found the line of John’s pulse, tasting the skin there as he held John close. When he drew back, his lips went to the shell of John’s ear, whispering promises to him, “Never, ever letting you out of my damn sight again John Watson. I intend on keeping you.” If it hadn’t been for the whisper, his voice would have cracked. The declaration pulled something in his own chest and he sought out John’s lips once again, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to them. 

John had died. 

That was the only explanation. Sherlock was surrounding him and he didn’t hurt. They were both safe and warm in his bed, both in one piece; no threats, no enemies... simply John and Sherlock. John clung to him, needing the physical assurance that this was not some fevered, desperate hallucination under torture. Sherlock was warm and solid above him, his height making John feel very small, which was quite alright at the moment.

This blissful mercy was John’s undoing. He was helpless to the release. There was no slowing the severity of his chest hitching, tears dripping along his temples and into his hair. It was like breathing after far too much time underwater, the weight on his shoulders slowly melting away, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in years.

Sherlock kept hold of John as he came apart, whispering softly and ghosting his lips over John’s face, careful to avoid the damage. It was unnerving to see the typically unflappable man reduced to actual tears. He’d remained dry-eyed even at Sherlock’s graveside. He spoke, the words heavy on his tongue, voice much gentler than typical. 

"I am sorry for what I put you through, John. Had I any idea this would all coalesce..." he nuzzled John's temple as he felt John tense in his arms. Sherlock ran his hand down John's back to soothe him again, shaking his head at his own misstep. "Shutting up now, enough time for that when we've recovered."

“I-I’m sorry,” John breathed, dragging his hands over his own face in an attempt to clear away the moisture, wincing at his carelessness, “I don’t know… don’t know what this reaction is.”

His fingers blanched with his renewed grip on Sherlock’s shirt, one hand threading through Sherlock’s hair again, relishing the ability to touch Sherlock like this. John’s breathing was still too shallow and fast, hitching and uneven as he came down from whatever emotional barricade had given way and pulled him under. 

There was still so much to be said, so many things to address, but for now he was just so happy to be as he was. 

“I... this is not what I-I would have expected and-” he shook his head and kissed Sherlock again, neglected physical pain slowly demanding John’s attention. His own discomfort reminded him of Sherlock's condition and he took the moment to ask after him. “How are you? Hurting much?”

Sherlock couldn't help the gentle laugh, tracing John’s temple, "There's my John... more worried about the idiot who went on a drug fueled bid to end his own suffering than he is himself. Do you have any idea how I longed... well I suppose you have even more insight than I do." He sighed softly.

"Pain's there. Feels like my nerve endings are on fire. Have a few hours of that to go... Then I'll start begging, then I'll be angry... I'll want to watch the world burn around me. Were I capable of sustaining such anger, it serves to reason that I would pose a much greater threat to the world than Moriarty ever hoped to be.” He sighed and gently touched John again, shaking his head. “Please do not hesitate to call for help with me should I become too difficult to manage. You have never witnessed my withdrawal before. I can be...difficult is not an adequate way to describe my potential behavior.”

“Lucky for you, you’ve an invalid at home,” John joked in his own self-depreciation. He loathed that he could not properly care for Sherlock through the haze of his own injuries. He rolled his head slowly to the side as he reached out and grabbed his Co-dydramol, shaking out four tabs, two for himself and two for Sherlock. “I’m not giving you a lot of this, I’m afraid, but hopefully this combined with the Valium will help with the pain and anxiety. I’m not calling for anyone, and you’re not going to be bodily threat to me.”

He stated this mostly as a warning to Sherlock. He’d not tolerate violence, and he’d return it if necessary, as much as he was able if he had to. John was in no mood to invite any of the people he would call into their flat. Mycroft and Molly could hang themselves, for all he cared in that moment, and Greg would be unlikely to arrive alone. He shook his head again after swallowing his tabs, grimacing before curling back up tight to Sherlock’s side. “Tell me wh-when you can’t stand being touched, okay?”

Sherlock took the tablets and swallowed one, laying the other on 'his' side of the bed. He gazed at John carefully, as though cataloging every feature. "I'm not generally violent. Well, not towards people. I am rather vicious though. I'll play across your nerves better than I do the violin."

He rested his head against John's shoulder. "Just... stay with me... please."

John answered, curling his fingers back in Sherlock’s shirt, leaning into him as his eyes closed. “I always do, when you let me,” They’d manage everything as it came. John had nearly began asking questions, suddenly wanting answers to things that still made no sense in his mind in regards to Sherlock’s departure and time away, but he held his tongue. This wasn’t the time, and it would only invite trouble. 

“Try to take it easy with my nerves, if you would,” he whispered just before dropping off to an exhausted, shallow sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a touch of OOC behavior, given that Sherlock is in the throes of withdrawal. Heavy language, much angsting. Thank you all so much for all your support.

John woke to the sound of his mobile vibrating on the table beside them. The quality of the light told him he’d dozed at least an hour before coming awake to a throbbing headache and cloying, pain-induced nausea. He groaned and blinked blearily at the screen. 

_How is my brother faring? -MH_

John grit his teeth and deleted the message. Mycroft was an intensely sore point. They’d bonded, in whatever way a Holmes could bond, with John growing to trust Mycroft since meeting him in the warehouse. He’d been shocked at the role the elder brother had played in Sherlock’s downfall, but two weeks after they’d put Sherlock in the ground, John was convinced that Mycroft was drowning in guilt and had no intention of so severely harming his brother. 

They’d _grieved_ together. Sunday evenings were often met with Mycroft’s grave-side company. A cup of tea or a few fingers of Brandy shared between the pair in silence. John enjoyed the times Mycroft would make an appearance, he’d not felt so utterly alone.

Only, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Mycroft knew Sherlock was not there in the ground at their feet.He watched John become a shadow of himself, struggled to get him to eat or sleep, encouraging him to bloody _move on_. And _Molly_...

Molly stung so much worse. Mycroft made a life out of deception. Molly was... he’d never doubted her, trusted her completely. He felt guilt at being so angry with her. Perhaps anger was not the correct word. Wounded betrayal was more accurate. Of all the people he thought were safe...

He shook his head and sighed, his stomach rolling with the movement. Had it been entirely necessary for his captors to strike him so hard, and so many damn times? He winced, one hand going to the large knot on the back of his head. He was lucky the bones were not fractured, at least. 

Sherlock felt overly warm at his side. A faint quiver of his shoulders let John know the worst of the withdrawal was at them now, when Sherlock’s cells would scream for chemicals John would not allow him to have. He bit his lip and downed two more Co-dydramol in preparation, knowing it was an overly large dose so soon after the last and frankly not really caring. He’d managed to do so just in time.

Sherlock came awake sitting straight up in the bed and looked wildly around for a moment, having forgotten where he was. He nearly scrambled out of bed when his eyes landed on John and he clenched his jaw, trying to keep from lashing out at him for being so close, so much... so John. He popped the second co-dydramol John had given him and threw himself from the bed, clothes flying as he stalked across the room towards the lav, not caring that he was quite naked before he made it in and slammed the door behind him.

The shaving cream tipped over, clattering against the porcelain sink, followed by a loud oath. Sherlock gripped the sink, staring across it at his face in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes before yanking his hand back and letting it fly. The mirror spider webbed and he drew back with a hiss, knuckles tattered. He waved his hand at it as though he were dismissing it and climbed into the bottom of the shower, turning the water on just below scalding and sitting there, wrapping his arms around his legs.

It took a moment for John’s pulse to settle back down. He’d expected this, but Sherlock was so sudden in his movements that the abrupt change from tense sleep to raging awareness shook him, far too close in its similarity to his more violent company. He stared at the lav door, listening to Sherlock bumble about, flinching as the unmistakable sound of fist-on-glass told him everything he needed to know of Sherlock’s condition. 

He eased himself up, pulling the blankets off himself and slowly swiveling to drop his legs to the floor. He wasn’t in terrible pain at the moment, at least. Simply experiencing the dizzy upset and fog of concussion. 

One co-dydramol wasn’t going to cut if for Sherlock or anyone else, for that matter, at this stage of withdrawal. Mycroft would know that, having seen his little brother suffer this addiction several times already. Yet, he’d only sent Sherlock aspirin to help... his jaw ticked, furious with the elder Holmes.

He grabbed his mobile and sent a text to Greg.

_Have Molly get a refill on my scripts. Please bring them yourself, I can’t see her right now. -JW_

He deliberated for a moment before collecting a second pill and three Valium for Sherlock, walking awkwardly into the lav without knocking. 

“Take these,” was all he said, easing the curtain back and holding out the pills in the palm of his hand, not daring to drop his eyes to Sherlock at the moment. 

Sherlock’s hand closed over John’s, tipping the pills into it and popping them into his mouth. He eyed the blood he’d managed to smear on John and his jaw worked for a moment, “Wash your hand well. I don’t... just wash it. There are a couple stretches I don’t remember what I used.” He clamped his mouth shut again and worked his tongue between his teeth, every effort not to scream at John for having dared show up to help.

He looked at his hand and made sure they were all tiny little bleeders, nothing deep enough to be stitched. There was one... he wouldn’t bleed to death from the damn thing though. He scrubbed a hand over his face, near snarling when he hit the bruise John had put there, voice rough and accusatory. “My goddamned face hurts. Thanks.” 

John smirked to himself and moved to the sink, shaking his head at the damned mirror they’d now have to replace, staring at the fragmented reflection of his face as he scrubbed his hands. Sherlock had managed to scare him with the warning regarding his blood, though. The idea of him reusing needles in a seedy den of opioid heads was not one he enjoyed at all. 

He left the door slightly cracked as he hobbled back out to the bed, snatching up the phone to ask Greg to add lab supplies in addition to the co-dydramol refill. He’d draw bloods and have Molly run them. Mycroft and Greg had assured that Sherlock always had access to clean needles. John still had to be sure. 

He piled up pillows at the headboard and settled back down, his leg propped up, reading through messages on his mobile while he waited for Sherlock to make his next move. Hopefully the Valium would help. 

Sherlock slowly but surely calmed down, the Valium taking enough of the edge off combined with the one co-dydramol he’d kept back. Finally he shut the taps off, immediately starting to shiver as the temperature dropped swiftly. He took a shaking step out of the tub and reached for a towel, wrapping up tight in it. The webbed mirror reflected him back to himself and he scowled; Mycroft could deal with its replacement. Sod the damn man.

He fished in the medicine cabinet and pulled down gauze and tape. He washed the hand in the sink and hissed as it stung. Finally he came padding out and stood beside the bed, holding out the gauze and tape. He said nothing as his jaw worked and he tried not to scream at John again, his presence grating on his nerves. Sherlock was trying desperately to hold on to the calm peace of the night before, wrapped up in warm arms and soothed with gentle touches. It wasn’t working. His voice was hoarse, “Wrap the damn hand. I’m going upstairs before I recite for you a list of all your fantastic shortcomings and personality flaws.”

John let that lie, knowing the words to be born from the raw nerves of withdrawal. He patted the bed beside him, reaching out for Sherlock’s hand, taking the gauze and tape. He directed his attention to the split skin, inspecting for anything that looked more than superficial. Even the worst of them could simply be bandaged, through a few may leave light scars. 

His fingers were gentle and soft as he began wrapping, “You can go upstairs if you simply must, but I would really rather you not. I can’t get to you up there without banging this damn foot around and, personality flaws or not, I’d rather you not have a seizure where I can get to you.”

He ripped the tape and fastened the bandaging, keeping hold of Sherlock’s hand for just another minute, looking up at his face and, thinking better of it, let him go. “Please.”

Sherlock huffed at him, “Do you want a cuppa? I can’t sit still right now.” His bare foot was tapping, knee bouncing from it. “I don’t, well I’ve not ever seized... Cuppa, damn it do you want one?” He was muttering under his breath and suddenly stood, striding out to get his phone. A few moments later he could be heard shouting at Mycroft.

“I don’t care what you bloody well think, you send some damn supplies that contain more than bloody aspirin or I’ll come detox at your fucking office.”

And then the phone hit the wall and the kettle was slammed down on the stove. Sherlock appeared back in the doorway, towel barely hanging on his hips, tone nearly cheerful, “Cuppa then?”

John was about to decline, but it was clear Sherlock would be mucking about in the kitchen one way or the other. “Yeah, cuppa would be fine,” he answered, keeping his tone passive. 

It was nearly comical to hear Sherlock raving at his brother, and John had no inclination to do anything at all about that. He did not have the benefit of withdrawal to excuse what he’d like to say to the man. Though, truth be told, he’d much rather say it with fists than sharp, clever words. 

Sherlock was behaving as expected, thus far, and John was sure they’d manage this, even if the flat needed refurnishing in the end. 

Sherlock found a pair of boxers in his bag and slipped into them. He fussed around in the kitchen for a while longer before bringing a cup of tea to John with a sandwich Mrs. Hudson had tucked in the fridge. He lamented the No-Body-Parts-Rule and thought about ignoring it and calling Molly.

“Eat, or... something. You’re supposed to be recovering. Strength and all that, right?”

He shifted absentmindedly, rubbing the groove on the top of his shoulder as he watched John. “Tell me if you need anything... Think I broke the phone though. Can’t text, just yell. Bloody Mycroft. Told him to keep you company, watch out for you... let you go to goddamned combat.” 

He’d started wandering away before he wheeled on John, “AND YOU! You WENT! What the hell, John!” His eyes narrowed. “And your filthy mouth. I never cursed like this before. Your fault. All of it. I’m surrounded by idiots.”

He threw his hands up and went to the closet, digging through it and tossing things out. A pair of John’s shoes sailing into the dresser.

John’s stomach dropped as Sherlock began digging into the closet. He was going to find it, _fuck._

“Oi! The hell are you looking for Sherlock, get out of there!” He shouted, dropping his feet to the floor and getting up, “Hey, stop,” he called, irritated now. His nerves were buzzing with all the talk of Mycroft and his deployment, and now his privacy was at stake. Not that Sherlock would be in the dark forever, but this was not the mood he wanted the man in when he came across that blasted trunk.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “I’m _trying_ to get to the secret panel I put in that you’ve not seen. Your crap is in the way.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and merely shoved the trunk to the side and, after a moment’s struggle, popped the panel. He fished out its contents and came to sit beside John, leaving the mess he’d made. He shoved the pile of papers in John’s lap.

“Here. Mycroft was supposed to tell you the panel was there if something happened. I’m going back to the kitchen... You can find me, or not, after you’ve finished.” He slipped back out without another word and continued banging around in the kitchen, making himself something to try to nibble on.

The papers he’d shoved into John’s lap were clippings of every case they’d worked. The ridiculous pictures of them in the hats. Pictures of them standing proudly, well John proudly, Sherlock bored while news crews filmed family members of those they’d helped. At the bottom was a letter, penned as neatly as Sherlock could manage.

_John,_

_I owe you an apology. I always meant to make it home to 221B Baker Street after the fall. You’ve thought me gone for quite some time, I’d imagine. I’ve been trying to clean up the web, Moriarty was a well connected spider indeed.Trouble is, if Mycroft pointed you to this, I failed. It wasn’t your fault. You’ve been my best friend and I care about you like no other. It’s something I thought you should know, even if I can’t tell you to your face._

_Go, live, for me._

_Yours as always,  
Sherlock_

John set the stack aside after the fifth re-read, closing his eyes as he tried to puzzle out exactly what the hell he was feeling. 

Of all the fucking times for Sherlock to hand him this... He pushed himself off the bed and narrowly resisted chucking his tea mug at the wall, his pulse far too high. He raked his fingers through his short hair and glared down at the cast on his leg, loathing how limited he was in movement. 

He looked to the closet and back to the bed, a picture of him smirking beside Sherlock in the deerstalker face up and crisp with memory. He swore and shoved his shaking hand into his pocket, taking his anger and applying it to righting the mess Sherlock had made of his room. 

He was sweating by the time he finished the small task, strung out and exhausted already. Slowly he sank down to his knees at the back of the closet, the trunk he’d been so concerned about shoved to the side, a gap in the wall where the panel had been ripped open. He dropped his face into his hands and forced himself to slow down and breathe, briefly entertaining the idea of taking a cab to Heathrow and never looking back. 

It was, of course, an impossible and reckless thought, one he would like to believe he really didn’t want to come to fruition. He refused to cry again, simply refused. He put his focus to his breathing, simply leaning against the trunk as he mastered himself. 

Sherlock answered the door when the bell sounded. Anthea stood there looking bored. She held out a box and Sherlock reached for it. She snatched it back, “I’m under the strictest of instructions to only hand this over to Doctor Watson. Except the cell phone. Mycroft said he believes you’ve shattered the other one?”

“JOHN! It’s for you. Do you want to come out or have me send her in? It’s Mycroft’s little…” he looked her up and down with a sneer, waving his hand in the air, “whatever the hell she is. She won’t give me whatever Mycroft’s sent me.” He made a face at Anthea and opened the door, not at all concerned that he was still only in boxers. “Come in I suppose. Spy for my dear brother.”

He stalked past her and into the doorway of John’s room, nearly whining in his tone, “She won’t give it to me.”

John set his jaw and pushed himself up from the floor, bracing on the trunk, before shuffling out of the closet. He said nothing to Sherlock as he swept by, a single pat on Sherlock’s shoulder the only indication he’d heard him. 

He found Anthea in the sitting room and hobbled over to her, holding his hand out for the fucking box, not making any attempt at eye contact or social niceties. 

She handed it over with a shrug and breezed back out, cell phone already to her ear, “Mhm, no indication the couch had been slept on. Yes, absolutely. Boxers only.” before she was out of the building. 

Sherlock wandered back into the living room and shut the door. “Ok, hand it over.” He held out his hands expectantly. There was a very particular reason she’d been instructed to keep it out of Sherlock’s hands. He’d very happily stone himself into oblivion with half the supplies in the box.

John ignored him for a moment as he stared at the space Anthea had just occupied, utterly _furious_. 

He set his jaw and slowly pulled his focus down to the box, peeking inside to see the nature of the supplies, shutting the lid and hobbling back into his room without a word. This was going to be a nightmare. 

“ Leave it, Sherlock, you’ve plenty of meds onboard for now. I’ll give you more when you need them,” voice tight and strained as he set the box down on his night table, mind racing to come up with an adequate way of keeping these from Sherlock’s hands when he inevitably fell asleep again. 

Sherlock glared after him and stalked back to the doorway, “My box. He sent it to me. You won’t even talk about how pissed you are at him. Leave it alone. I’ll go upstairs.” Sherlock huffed slightly before crossing to the bed and sitting down on the edge opposite John. “Please?”

He curled up on the bed and watched John, before noticing the cleaned mess, “Oh, you cleaned up. You shouldn’t have in your condition.”

That set him off. “My _condition_ , Sherlock? What exactly _is_ my condition? Hmm?” He clipped, one hand on the box, moving it more out of Sherlock’s sight. 

His eyes fell to the stack of pictures and the letter just beside where Sherlock had curled on the bed, watching the manipulative idiot feign concern in an effort to get what he wanted. John’s arms twitched for a fight and he could hardly articulate with the force of narrowly constrained anger bubbling in his chest. 

“I’ve already asked you not go upstairs, just...have some tea and put on some crap telly and relax, I’m not giving you the damned box.”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine.” He reached down and pulled the covers over his head, voice slightly muffled. “Your condition is torn the hell up from going to a fucking _warzone_ and getting captured. Or did the beating addle your already small brain _that_ much?” 

Sherlock continued on after that but quieter and unintelligibly.“I gave you the letter I wrote in the event of my failing. Should be happy, damn it. I’m _trying_ here.” The words were clear again as Sherlock exploded out of the bed and stalked back towards the living room, pausing in the doorway to shoot a glare at John.

John sucked in a sharp breath and looked away as Sherlock referenced what had happened to him in the care of his enemies, fists curling at his side as something broke behind his already cracked ribs. 

Oh, how those words had _hurt_. 

He listened to the broken muttering, the unintelligible tantrum Sherlock threw until he was whining about his valiant effort with the letter and shot up and away. He made the mistake of looking up to watch him leave, only to find Sherlock glaring at him with such open anger it stole his breath away. 

He gave a tight nod and averted his eyes. “Right, then,” he whispered, his voice tight and strained, nodding to himself as though it was all clear now, had all come together. He dragged his fingers through his hair and bit down hard on his lip, blinking slowly, willing his breathing to settle down. 

Sherlock was yanking on clothes from his bag, tossing one t-shirt across the room before yanking a different one on. He looked around for his boots and couldn’t find them. “WHERE are my damned BOOTS!?” He stomped around the living room looking for them, managing to overturn the coffee table in the process and nearly send the chair over. 

He stood with a huff, looking around in the middle of the chaos he’d created in a few short minutes. “John! I can’t find my boots.” It was an almost sorrowful whine. “I need to go down to Speedy’s.”

“If you walk out that door I’ll have Greg shove you in a squad car. You are not leaving,” John replied from the doorway of his room, leaning a heavy shoulder against the jamb, arms crossed carefully over his chest. 

“Calm down for a moment and I’ll give you something more to help settle you down. There is no need for this. Relax and let me do my job.”

His voice was tight, but he was fully in control of himself for now, worry at Sherlock’s sudden flight risk overriding the bitter anger in his veins. 

Sherlock sat down on the sofa and looked at John, observed his stance, the strain in his voice. He kind of just melted back into the sofa and his face fell. “I hurt you, made you angry, all over again.” He scratched at the stubble on the side of his face that didn’t hurt. “You should have tossed me into the Thames.”

He looked around the room, at the destruction he’d wrought in just a few minutes of irritation over not being able to find his boots. He crawled off the sofa and righted the coffee table, slowly picking up the papers and magazines that had littered it and stacking them neatly. He loathed this part. It was worse than any physical pain he’d ever been through in his life. His already wild swings in mood uncontrollable. “Might ought to call Greg to deal with me, be better for you.”

John said nothing as he turned back into the room and fetched two of the stronger sedatives Mycroft had finally deigned necessary for Sherlock’s recovery. He shoved the box up into the back of his night table drawer, hoping out of sight would keep out of mind a touch more than it sitting there for Sherlock’s eyes to fall on at any given time. 

He returned, limping into the sitting room and slowly settling on the sofa, eyes on Sherlock as he held out the tablets. 

“If you’d rather go with Greg, I’m… I can’t stop you. I won’t try to. Whatever you’d prefer, Sherlock, it’s your choice.” He did not look at Sherlock as he said it, was far too afraid that he was about to watch him go. 

Sherlock took the tablets, swallowing them with a rough movement, not wanting to get up for anything to drink. He merely clicked the television on and scooted over so that he was next to John’s leg. He sat there on the floor and wrapped his arm around John’s good leg. Not speaking for a moment. 

A set of commercials rolled by before he finally spoke softly, calm again for the moment, still actually feeling guilt over hurting John. “Don’t want to be without you.”

John simply reached his hand out and sank his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, staring out the window even as the TV played quietly in the background. He did not speak for a while, just letting himself enjoy the moment of calm he knew had no chance of lasting. Ironically, it would be his own mouth that broke the silence.

“There is a trunk in the closet,” he whispered at last, a thrill of adrenalin shooting through him as he gave away the words. He could not push himself to whisper anything else, his eye falling closed as his heart fluttered against his ribs. 

John had not opened it for more than a year now, having stowed it away just before he left. Molly had been responsible for most of it. Sherlock’s bloodied Belstaff and scarf sat nestled with his violin and skull, among other little artifacts that John had not been able to part with. His last bottle of cologne, for instance, a few scrawled notes from around the flat. Simple requests for more milk, or cutting quips regarding John’s blog. Little bits of Sherlock that John had kept alive, utterly unable to part with. He curled his fingers into the material of his own shirt, his mouth dry as he put himself out there, vulnerable to Sherlock’s mocking temper. 

He blinked and looked down at Sherlock for a moment, teeth trapping his lip as he waited. 

Sherlock looked up at John quizzically, “I’m guessing I need to go look, since I saw the trunk earlier.” It wasn’t hateful, spiteful, just... Sherlock for a moment. The sedatives just beginning to snake tendrils of calm through him. He pressed a kiss to John’s knee before unfolding himself from the floor and crossing to the bedroom.

He could be heard rummaging, though much more carefully this time. He emerged a few moments later, toting the trunk. He sat it beside the coffee table and sat on the edge of the couch. He looked over at John for a moment before he opened it.

The skull grinned up at him, even as the smell of his cologne wafted up a bit. He pulled the skull out and moved, putting him back in his spot on the mantle before returning to the sofa. His fingers curled around the violin and it was tucked under his chin before anything else could be done. He winced though at the bow across the strings and sighed. It would need work before he could actually play it again. He actually smiled though before setting it reverently on the coffee table.

The notes amused him as he flicked through them, reading bits here and there. He pulled out little odds and ends and set them aside. His fingers curled around the Belstaff and he let out a sigh of happiness. He’d missed his coat. He suddenly scooted across the sofa and drew John to him, kissing him softly before John could argue.

John’s voice broke a bit as Sherlock kissed him, cracking a small sound that was a mixture of relief and pain. He leaned away, unable to tolerate this mood of Sherlock’s, the kindness in the eye of the storm. If he accepted this, he’d only feel it later. 

“I had to go,” he rasped, sounding as though he’d just worked his way through several packages of cigarettes. “That’s all I had left of you. A bloodied coat and scarf, and… that was- I… do you have any idea how guilty I felt not burying you in that? I just… Molly offered and I couldn’t resist and...” he gestured to the bloodied scarf still in the trunk. “That’s not even your blood, is it?”

He shook his head and raked his fingers over his hair. “I had nothing here. Nothing. I was purposeless. At least… at least I am a decent soldier and there were people I could help. I am good at what I do, and I could do it far away from the sting of all this, could put some coin in my wallet without your brother sending me handouts...I had _nothing_ , Sherlock.”

He took a deep, wavering breath, his eyes settling on the skull that was so suddenly returned to its place. “I was not bloody _kidnapped_. I was captured in the line of duty, you sodding arse, trying to save a fucking kid I’m pretty sure I killed, anyhow. I did not plan on coming home. I was banking on dying in those fucking caves. Don’t you _dare_ throw that at me again, Sherlock. I mean it.”

Sherlock visibly recoiled from John’s words. Anger flashing across his face before he was able to force it back down and stand. “Yes, actually, it is my blood... not that it matters.” His jaw worked for a moment. “Anthea said there was a cell phone in that box. I’d like, at some point to use it to have my clothes delivered. Tired of jeans and t-shirts.” He gathered most of the odds and ends and put them back in the trunk before laying the violin carefully on top. 

He looked back to John for a moment before closing the lid and standing. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” He scrubbed a hand through his shaggy hair. “I’ll stay out of your way. I’m sorry.” He scooped up the trunk and hauled it back into the room, setting it back in its place in the closet before stripping back down to boxers. His clothes were folded neatly by his side of the bed and he curled into it. He pulled the covers up and shoved his head under the pillow, only letting the tears fall after he’d hidden himself there.

John swore under his breath as Sherlock left, dragging his fingers through his hair before grabbing the Union Jack and hurling it across the room. He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled to the telly, clicking it off before standing in front of the dark screen, face to the floor, breathing heavily as he wrestled with himself. 

He swore again and stalked off to the kitchen, pain creeping its way back up along his spine. He growled at his physical state, done with being so debilitated, needing his strength to handle all of this. 

He reached for a glass before remembering they were down to only a few, most of the flat tucked away in storage while John was gone. Furiously he plucked one out of the sink, turning on the taps and setting in to scrub the damn thing, losing himself as he gripped it too hard at the top, crunching the glass in on itself. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, shaking his hand out as little shards of glass and blood swirled together and slipped down the drain. He picked up the mostly intact base and hurled it into the bin before killing the taps and covering his eyes with his soaked hands, slowly sinking down to the floor. 

He leaned back against the cabinets and just fucking cried. It was hopeless. Sherlock thought him weak and foolish, ungrateful and absurd. He’d never understand...and John had no hope of freedom from careless jibes that would cut and wound every time, no hope of recovering from any of this. His breathing was far too swift and shallow as he choked on the swelling of his throat, sniffing hard against the tears dripping off his chin, trapped and defeated. 

Sherlock was out of the bed at the yell and near running by the time the glass crashed. He was on the floor next to John as he watched him. He wrapped his arms around him and drew him close. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry... I’m trying. I don’t want to be like this. I should let you recover.” He looked John over. “Jesus, you’re bleeding John.” He frowned and reached up, fishing for a dish towel. His hand landed on one Mrs. Hudson had left out for them and brought it down, wrapping it around John’s hand.

“John...” He sighed and just leaned his head to the smaller man’s. “I’m so sorry. I know you said you didn’t want me to go... but Greg can ignore my mood swings. I don’t want to leave you alone, but I can’t keep ripping you to pieces either.” His voice was cracking now. “I’m sorry I’m such a bastard.”

John looked away. Sherlock wanted to leave. Sherlock wanted to leave, and John would be here alone. Again. He nodding tight and clipped before managing to get himself to his feet. He left Sherlock on the floor, dropping the dishtowel on the table. His hand was not bleeding too severely, it would not require stitching or bandaging, really. It took him longer than he cared for to get to his room, picking up his mobile and texting Greg to come fetch Sherlock. 

He pulled the box out and picked up a pen, scrawling instructions to the DI for each medication, putting a strict schedule down for Sherlock’s care. He took up the mobile and called his own cell from it, ensuring he had the number. 

He could hardly breathe as he picked up Sherlock’s bag and loaded the last of Sherlock’s clean clothing into it, slinging it over his shoulder and taking it out of the room with the box and instructions. He set the lot on the coffee table, the cell phone separate from the medication, before sinking down to the sofa, waiting for Greg to show up. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, holding his knees to his chest. He didn’t want Greg to come get him, he didn’t want to leave John. He was still sitting on the kitchen floor in his boxers when Greg knocked on the door. He shrank back against the cabinets as Greg came in.

“Go away goddamn it. Go away!”

He backed himself into the corner eyes flicking between Greg and John. “D-don’t. Don’t let him take me.” Sherlock was suddenly _terrified_ to be away from John. Something dark reaching up and yanking on every tightly strung nerve he had. He held his fingers in his hair and tried to breathe.

Greg scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck before moving closer to Sherlock, crouching down in front of him and carefully reaching out, taking his wrists firmly in hand, accustomed to Sherlock’s child-like reversions when he was detoxing. John was still on the sofa, silent tears rolling down his cheeks, no idea at all what the best course of action here was. Sherlock had repeatedly asked to go with Greg over many hours and John was trembling with exhaustion at this point. 

“Sherlock, stop this,” Greg said gently, pulling Sherlock’s hands away from his hair, “look at me, Sherlock, it’s just me.”

Sherlock looked up at Greg and burst into tears. “Can’t do it this time. I keep, k-keep hurting him and I-I can’t.” Sherlock was near hysterics, feeling like the Earth was going to open up and just swallow him. “C-can’t, done enough for lifetimes. Multiple, over and over again.” He dropped his chin to his chest just repeating that he was sorry, before he suddenly launched himself against Greg and buried his face against his shoulder. 

Sherlock was near his breaking point. It usually came with these times. He just finally broke down and sobbed for hours. He’d eventually stop and slowly but surely perk back up over the next several days. Greg had seen him through enough of these to have deserved a damn medal by now.

John watched the scene unfold from the sofa, little shards of glass cracking apart in his chest and falling away, leaving him raw and brittle. As soon as Sherlock dropped the fear and leaned into Greg, he silently pushed himself to his feet and slipped back into his room, closing the door behind him, unable to watch any longer. He turned the lock in case Greg made an effort to slip and and tell him goodbye, pressing his back to the wall and sliding down to the floor. 

He heard them through the thin wall, panic arching up his spine as he heard Greg muttering calmly to Sherlock before grabbing up the things from the sofa and moving back into the kitchen. 

“Alright, Sherlock, up with you,” he said as he hooked an arm under Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled him up off the floor. “Let’s go get you settled, it will all be fine. Steady now, that’s it,” he encouraged as he moved them to the stairs, his car waiting in the street below. 

Sherlock balked at the door, shaking his head violently, “No. No. He didn’t want me to l-leave.” His jaw worked again as anger lanced through him, “He’s just letting me leave!” Sherlock glared at Greg, “And you’re helping!” He shoved a finger in Greg’s chest. “Why’s it always _you_? What’s Mycroft got on you!?”

He wrenched himself out of Greg’s arm and took a few steps back, “You tell me right now... tell me what he’s got on you. You tell me why you do this. You only ever started because of him. Keeping tabs on me, spying for him!”

Sherlock was shaking now, fists balled up by his sides. “You tell me or I will beat you black and blue Greg Lestrade, you tell me right _now_.”

Greg’s eyes cut to John’s door as he sighed. “Jesus, Sherlock, really. I’m your friend. Mycroft doesn’t even know I’m here. We’ve been through this before. Don’t do this right now, Sherlock, don’t do this.”

He set his jaw and advanced on the panicking man, keeping his posture loose and steady, no aggression outside of the tension at his cheek. Sherlock was too unstable to be any sort of valid threat, but he’d rather not push it. 

John, meanwhile, was breaking apart at the seams as he listened. His palms were sweating and his fingers shaking as his stomach rolled and he was in danger of sicking up right where he sat. He struggled to breathe slow enough to keep himself conscious and dashed his hand across the falling tears. 

Sherlock shoved past Greg, down the stairs and out to the car, barefoot and in boxers. He locked his door and slid down in the seat, arms folded across his chest as he stared up at 221 Baker Street, a sinking feeling in his chest. His jaw worked as he fought the urge to go barreling back in and lock Greg out. Somewhere, part of him was screaming to just stay calm and leave John the hell alone before he ruined everything forever.

“I’ve got him, John,” Greg said gently through the door before heading after Sherlock, moving swiftly and locking the front of Baker Street up behind him. 

John waited until silence settled in around him before falling completely apart. He sagged down flat to the floor, too strung out and too exhausted to care, pain singing across his nerves, panic twisted hard around his gut.

He’d failed. Whatever he imagined he could do for Sherlock, it had been delusion. And now he was alone. Again. He curled his fists in tight and just gave himself over to despair.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst! John losing it. Maybe a bit of fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us and all of your beautiful comments!

Sherlock was spoiling for a fight. He was so angry with himself for leaving John, for having to leave John, for caring about him too much and having all this fester. He hauled off and punched the dash in Greg’s car and scrambled for the door lock. He was already trying to climb back out of the car by the time Greg was climbing in, swearing up a storm as his fingers shook too badly to manage the lock.

“Let me out of this damn car and back in the fucking flat. He can’t be alone, don’t you dare leave him alone you bastard. Don’t you dare.”

Greg sighed and put the car in drive, pulling away from the flat before Sherlock could manage much more damage. His own flat was just blocks from Baker Street, it wouldn’t take too long to get there. 

“John is going to be fine, Sherlock. He knows how to care for himself, and I’ll check on him. Right now you’ve got to get yourself in order, bloody hell man, have you even looked at yourself? He can’t put you back together right now.”

It was mostly a statement of hope. John had been on his own for quite some time now, and while he’d had a rough go in this last deployment, he was no stranger to isolated recovery. John would be alight. Surely. 

He managed to get them to his flat, grabbing Sherlock’s things and tucking the cell into his pocket, holding it until he was sure Sherlock would not destroy this one, or use it to call John and shout his abuse through the line. “Come on, let’s get you inside and comfortable.” 

Sherlock had run out of steam. He meekly followed Greg inside, muttering under his breath about everything that had come to pass. He felt broken and lost. He sat on the edge of the bed in the guest room he had destroyed. He supposed Mycroft had paid for everything. 

“Go away please?”

He curled himself onto the edge of the bed, back to Greg, as tears slipped down his face, threatening to break into full fledged sobs any minute. His voice cracked as he spoke again.

“Just didn’t want to hurt him, so I abandoned him... again.”

That admission did it. He curled in on himself as the sobs wracked his frame. Molly came in the door behind them and shooed Greg out, “Cuppa, go.”

She sat on the bed beside Sherlock and just drew his head into her lap, fingers running through his hair. “You’re the stupidest and brightest man I know Sherlock. Deep breaths. Just, deep breaths.” Sherlock clung to her his voice breaking as he tried to talk.

“Hurt him too much. He’ll never forgive me. Never.”

“Shut up, Sherlock. Rest so you can go home to him. Just, shut up.”

Sherlock did, exhaustion reaching up and yanking him under after just a few minutes.

Five hours in, John was losing it. He’d swallowed more painkillers and his antibiotics, taken a shower, destroyed his room and put an impressive dent in the scotch. 

He’d not been left to his own company since being plucked out of the caves, and the isolation was driving him mad. This was not like his first return, where he’d been unlucky enough to catch a round, but he’d not been subject to- his mind panicked at the thought and skittered away from the caves, grabbing a new focus.

Sherlock was never going to forgive him for letting Greg take him. Ever. He’d been so angry when Greg had taken him. It was like ripping teeth to allow Sherlock to be moved from his sight, one of the most difficult things he’d experienced in a long, long while. He’d done it for Sherlock, respecting his wishes, wanting him in the care of someone who was not a pile of psychological wreckage. 

All that was left for him here was...this. His nose red and his cheeks slicked and blotchy, he sat down in front of his desk and opened the drawer, fingertips sweeping along the cold barrel of his Browning. He bit his lip, hands shaking, intoxicated and sunk so low in his mind he could hardly tell which way was up. 

Mrs. Hudson would find him, if he put that barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger. 

He swore and grabbed the pistol and his clip, taking himself back to his room and tossing it on the bed. He changed into street suitable clothes: jeans and a tee, a hoodie tugged over the top, and threw a few changes into a backpack. His wallet, keys, and medication followed after that. He stumbled back into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle, screwing the lid on tight, tossing that in the bag as well. His weapon followed at the top. He slung the lot on over his shoulders and grabbed his crutches, his heart nearly beating out of his chest as whispers of things he’d rather not ever hear again rose the hairs on the back of his neck and pulled clipped sounds of distress from his lips. 

It was a struggle getting down the stairs, but he managed it. Mrs. Hudson would not be home for a long while. He locked up behind him and set out into the night, running like hell from that cloying fear that waited for him at Baker Street. 

erlock woke sometime later, darkness settled in. The place was silent and Sherlock caught sight of the mobile blinking where it lay on the night table. He stole quietly from bed and found his bag. He dressed quickly and found his trainers left from his stay last. He slid them on and made sure the bag was secure. His mind was clearing now; he’d be more likely to cry than rage for a few days and then he’d be as close to ok as Sherlock Holmes got

He was halfway out the window when Molly cleared her throat, “For God’s sake Sherlock, at least go out the front door this time. You aren’t locked in... Where are you going? If you say anywhere other than Baker Street, I’ll clobber you myself.” 

Sherlock glared at her.

“I’m going home. I didn’t want to come here in the first place. I thought I needed to be away from John... I cannot stand this separation.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Come on then, out the front.”

Sherlock did not need to be told twice. He was down the stairs and out the front door before she could change her mind. He pulled out the phone and peered at it., taking a deep breath as he walked, hitting call on John’s number.

“Pick up, pick up....”

John stared down at the number splashed across the dull blue glow of his screen, blinking his blurry eyes clear, recognizing the ‘S’ followed by too many letters. His thumb hovered over the talk button, moving jis thumb back and forth between ‘accept’ and ‘decline’ as he deliberated. He couldn’t tolerate the anger he knew he’d be subject to. He just couldn’t. 

With a hitched breath he shoved the mobile back into his pocket and pitched the empty bottle into a nearby bin, dropping down onto a freezing bench. He was in pain, but he’d not take any more pills tonight. Pills and alcohol made for a messy, messy corpse. 

The thought made him remember Adler quite suddenly, flaring hope in his chest. There was someone out there for Sherlock, at the very least. If the idiot would stop denying her. 

A few drunks stumbled by, making him shiver, looking at him as though they knew everything. He was on his feet, all but tripping over himself as he staggered away from them on crutches, moving aimless and deeper into the city. 

Sherlock cursed and his fingers flew over the keyboard.

Coming home. Please answer. - SH

He walked on, heading towards Baker Street, feet moving faster as his heart sank, stomach roiling. _‘Hang on, John…_ ’ He caught one of the homeless network close to Baker Street. The man beckoned him close and pointed as he spoke lowly “He what? When?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he stopped and took off in the opposite direction, phone back in his hand, already redialing John’s number.

John had got spooked, cursing himself for getting so bloody pissed when he was already having trouble keeping a handle on himself. He’d cut down an alley in the industrial districts and slipped hard on the slick cobbles, crashing to the ground. He bit down on his lip in an effort to keep himself silent and hidden, his heart pounding hard enough to turn his stomach. 

His phone rang and he grabbed at it with trembling fingers, blinking at the screen, utterly unable to focus on it. 

“Hello?” he breathed, hardly loud enough for the sound to be heard at all, the force of his terrified trembling shaking his pitch every which way. 

“John, oh, Christ, where are you? Are you ok? You sound... what’s wrong?” Sherlock was suddenly on high alert, passing the drunks who’d seen John most recently. The network was back in force. He was running now.

John had dropped the phone nearly as soon as he’d answered it, fear and intoxication destroying his dexterity. He was lost now, well and truly, confused as to where he was, where the threat was, shuffling desperately into the bag for his weapon. He was alone, separated, in pain and lost. 

He shoved the clip into the Browning with long practiced ease and got himself back to his feet, crutches forgotten, back pressed hard into the corner as he pressed the heel of one hand into his swollen eye, trying to clear the obstruction having forgotten the lid was simply swollen shut. He held the weapon at the ready in his free hand, entire body trembling. 

He reached for the radio at his shoulder, his fingers scrabbling down the front of his shirt for it when they came up empty. Panic shot across his gut as his hand dropped to his hip for the spare. “Oh, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, realizing he was isolated without commo. His mouth went dry as he pressed back and waited, ears peeled for gunfire. 

Sherlock cursed as the phone clattered to the pavement mid-ramble at John. He pushed himself harder, skidding around a corner into an alley, calling out John’s name.

No response. 

He stopped, listening to the phone, shutting everything else out and concentrating on the sounds coming from the still mercifully connected line. That ticking, the sound of steam rushing through a pipe near the phone, something else... what was that? The nearby factory, what did it produce? Didn’t matter, that sound was peculiar to it.

Sherlock was running again, ducking through places and stopping to listen every once in awhile. Finally he was there. Several small alleys could be it. “John?” he called out. “Where are you?”

Muffled shouting over the pounding in his ears set his intoxicated mind low and quiet. The panic stilled and he exhaled slowly, crouching down lower, thumb sliding the safety off. He sighted on the most likely entrance point, whispering silent prayers that his unit had _some fucking idea_ where he was. 

He breathed slow and deep, his heart thundering in his ears, focused and slow. 

Sherlock listened closely and his hands twitched. _Damn it._.. “Watson!” He tried John’s surname in a bid to appeal to the soldier, not knowing his mindset. He shifted to the mouth of an alley and peered down it. Nothing, again. He moved to the mouth of another and stopped. Where was John?

He turned to leave when suddenly he caught the slow-pulsing flash from the cell phone on the ground, every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He abruptly stopped before slowly, carefully turning back to the alley. He was tense, on edge. Either John had been snatched, or he was lurking in the shadows... if the latter were the case, Sherlock could well be in a world of trouble.

John sighted on the figure at the mouth of the alley, blinking against the one-eyed blur he had to work with. Someone had called his name, he’d heard it clearly. Only this man did not have the movement or posture of a soldier, though he appeared much too western to be a typical threat. His heart rolled over and he bit down hard on his lip, debating revealing himself and giving a warning short. 

He wasn’t in good enough shape to take on a combatant, and he wasn’t sure enough to take the shot. He held his breath and willed the man to simply move on. 

Sherlock hadn’t been shot or pounced yet, which was an incredibly encouraging sign. His voice sounded again, “John Watson!” He took a very slow step into the alley, hands held up high. “Here to take you home, come on out.”

John clipped the barrel to the side and took a shot that scattered brick dust down just over the left side of the figure’s head, adrenaline spiking as he tasted copper at the back of his throat. 

“Turn around and walk away!” he shouted, voice raw and desperate. Where in the fuck _was he_? None of this felt like Afghanistan. It was cold in that wet London way, hard brick at his back and cobbles under his feet. He bit his lip and pressed back further against the wall, shoulders trembling, very near blacking out. 

“ John! It’s _Sherlock_ you bloody idiot! I’ve already been shot once I’d rather _you_ didn’t finish the job! Put that damn thing down!” Sherlock was actually afraid to move now. “ _John Hamish Watson,_ you put that damn gun down so _help me_. I will haunt your arse!”

Sherlock. 

_Broad shoulders, smoke, British rounds, hospital, Mycroft, Baker Street Sherlock-_

It all came rushing back, nearly taking him to ground as he realized quite suddenly that he was in London, and Sherlock was not in bed recovering at Greg’s but was instead out here in the horrible night air after John. 

A very drunk, very confused John. 

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face, dropping the weapon down in his grip, muzzle to the cobbles. 

His grip held tight to the grip and he leaned heavily against the wall, wishing the ground would open and swallow him entirely. 

Sherlock moved down the alley slowly. He finally made John’s form out and sighed with relief. He held out his hands and ever so slowly closed them over John’s, “Can I have this now? Seem a little out of it.” He slowly, carefully prised John’s fingers from the weapon, and with practiced movements took the clip out and unloaded the round already in it. He stowed them in his bag and wrapped an arm around John gently, “Come on, love, I’ve got you. Let’s go home, okay?”

“I...” he whispered, gratefully leaning hard against Sherlock, eyes closed. “I g-got lost,” he breathed, fingers curling tight in Sherlock’s shirt as he pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“‘S Greg, I thought he...why are you...I’m sorry..I’m sorry you’re su-supposed to be resting,” 

He pressed closer to Sherlock and clung to him as much as his strength would allow, exhausted and swimming in relief. 

Sherlock shook his head lightly and scooped John into his arms, “You bloody idiot. I _love you_ , that’s why I left, it’s the only reason I’ve ever left. To protect you. Come on. I’m taking you home.” He held John close, carefully navigating to the mouth of the alley, cursing as he remembered the cell phone. He gently set John down to sit on a pile of flattened boxes.

“Just, stay. I’m just picking up your phone.”

He quickly scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket. He gathered John back up and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Nose scrunching slightly. “Did you drink the scotch Mycroft gave me?” He tutted and nodded to one of the network coming around the corner, “Find anything he left, deliver it to Baker Street. Fifty in it for you.”

Sherlock made it out to a thoroughfare and flagged down a taxi. He gently slid John in and then gave the driver the address, sighing as he sent a text to Greg. 

Bring stuff back to Baker Street. Just found John in an alley, drunk, staying home from now on - SH

John pressed himself hard against the cab door, forehead tipped to the glass, arms wrapped around himself tightly. The lights pulsing over them as they drove through London turned his stomach and he was fighting the urge to run. 

He was going to get it any second now, his nerves grating and his teeth clenched. If he’d thought he’d triggered Sherlock’s ire before, taking a shot at him in a dark fucking alley nearly made him faint. 

He opened his mouth to whisper apologies, shutting himself up before he made it worse. He’d never had a flashback like tonight, never forgotten where he was outside of the moments directly after waking. He groaned and pressed tighter to the door, struggling to make himself smaller.

Sherlock reached out and wrapped his fingers around John’s gently, “Hey, it’s ok... I’ve got you, we’ll be home in a minute, okay? Put you to bed.” The pad of his thumb idly worked circles on John’s hand as he sat with him. His mind raced. He was going to be damned depressed in the days to come, right now he was waiting on the adrenalin crash from the terror of John being on the streets alone and then the round that had shattered brick next to his head.

He pulled John’s hand to lips, pressing them softly to the backs of John’s knuckles. 

John was violently shivering by the time the cab pulled up in front of their flat. He stared at the black gloss of their paint, the brass numbers calling to him as he blinked his focus back. He slowly turned his eyes to Sherlock before looking swiftly away, fumbling to open the door and staggering out onto the sidewalk, catching the railing before he hit the ground. 

He pulled the keys from his pocket, the little tabs of metal clattering together in his unstable grip, pulling himself up the steps and somehow managing to turn the lock, staggering inside the foyer. 

Sherlock paid the cabbie and pulled himself after John. He gently shut and locked the door behind them, “John?” He was soft, gentle, moving in front of the man and gazing down at him. His fingertips drew John’s chin up. “It’s ok. I promise. You’re safe here. Let me help you upstairs, yeah?”

Worry was written across his face. John was half terrifying him at this point, acting as though he were afraid Sherlock was... _oh._.. Realization flashed across his face and he backed off, holding up his hands. “I’ll help you if you need it ok? I’m going to make a cup of tea if you want, tuck you in, and get some rest on the sofa unless you need me. Okay?”

The abrupt shift in Sherlock’s demeanor had John reeling. He’d been leaning into Sherlock’s fingers, soaking in the assurances when quite suddenly Sherlock had tossed his hands up and backed away. He bit down on the inside of his lip and shuffled in reverse until the wall was at his back. 

He nodded slowly, accepting what Sherlock told him despite the way it made his heart stop and then race far too hard. John knew he must have done something just then, shifted something, made it worse. 

“‘M f-fine,” he breathed, head spinning, lost and mentally staggering like someone just out of seizure. 

Sherlock huffed, “No you aren’t fine. Come here,” he murmured in irritation at himself and held his arms out as he stepped closer. “Let me get you to bed, okay? Let’s just, start there and see how everything goes. I think we’re over thinking things. John...” he took a deep breath and continued, “You look intermittently _terrified._.. Just, let me get you upstairs, come here, please?”

He chewed on his lip as he slid his arm around John, waiting for him to hug his neck so he could make his way slowly up the stairs with him. He was going to regret this in a couple of hours when he was curled up in the bathtub with it as hot as he could stand it to soothe his nerves. All he cared about right now was John though.

“I’ve got you.” 

John tightened his arm around Sherlock but used him almost exclusively for balance, taking his own weight until the last few steps. 

John had at least left the sitting room in one piece, suddenly remembering what he’d done to his own room. He let Sherlock go and moved away, pale and shaking, just waiting for the fallout. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, eyes stinging, not feeling like himself at all. What the hell had happened? He’d gone right off the deep end, he’d nearly...nearly taken his own life, scared the daylights out of Sherlock who was still clearly damaged from the round he’d taken to his shoulder. “I don’t know what happened I-I’m sorry, I’ll f-fix it you should be resting and...” he dragged a filthy hand down his face and turned to face Sherlock, forcing himself to look at his face. 

Sherlock was bewildered and stood there staring in confusion for a moment before speaking softly, “John, I’m not going to hurt you... you realize that, right? Just, sit, relax. I’ll fix whatever it is. Okay?” He crossed the room and peered into John’s room. He took in a breath and turned back around. “Just, sit, okay?”

He disappeared into John’s room and started the process of getting it clean enough to settle John into. Tears were silently tracking down his own face. He’d done this to John, frightened him terribly then nearly driven him mad. He managed to strip and remake the bed before his nerves started singing. He yanked the valium from the drawer and downed three of them.

He took a deep breath and looked around. It was still a mess in some areas, but John could get to the lav and the bed was clean. That would have to do for now He peeked back out into the living room.

John had done as instructed, setting down on the edge of the sofa, lacing his own fingers together between his bouncing knees. His plaster was a nightmare, splashed with mud and detritus from his hours on the run. 

On the run. 

What the hell had he been running _from_? He’d called Greg to stand in for what he was too ill-equipped to do, waited until Sherlock had been taken out screaming...and then what had happened? 

He shook his head, eyes narrowed and brows knit. When had he downed the bottle? He was clearly drunk, had memory of swallowing the burn. 

His ears snapped to ringing with the icy realization that he’d ran from the things he was _hearing._ “Oh, god,” he whispered under his breath, dropping his face into his hands, rocking slightly without realizing it. 

He had...there had been that sharp awareness of being alone, and therefore vulnerable, the lace of panic over his nerves that he tried to chase away with liquid courage, only to enhance the problem. He’d been so sure Sherlock would never want a thing to do with him again, and he was not safe in these walls, and then he’d nearly painted the walls with the inside of his head before running into the night and completely forgetting himself. 

He’d taken a shot at Sherlock. A warning one but...

He struggled to breathe with the sudden reality that he was _not okay,_ and John was _always_ okay.

Sherlock came out of John’s room and took one look at the man, his mouth running dry and heart sinking at the state of him. He paused for a moment before moving over and sitting down beside John on the sofa. He gently touched a hand to John’s shoulder to let him know he was there, slowly and carefully wrapping his arms around the clearly distressed man.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He kissed John’s temple softly. “What do you want to do? Do you want to do to bed? Want to rest here? Clean up? Whatever it is you need, we’ll do. I’ve taken some medicine, I’m okay. Whatever you need.”

He shifted, wrapping up around John more, nuzzling his face against John gently. “I...I care for you so intensely I can hardly bear it... I can’t, I _won’t_ lose you again. I’m sorry, I’m so indescribably sorry.”

John leaned against him and let the words sink home. Sherlock had been telling him since the alley that he loved him, hadn’t he? Everything was still so muddled, so foggy in his head. 

He was so afraid. He moved slowly, as though he’d scare Sherlock right off, afraid of him and wanting him in equal measure. There were a series of broken, desperate whimpers that took him far too long to realize they’d come from _himself_. His fingers curled into the material of Sherlock’s attire. His stomach lurched, gagging him for a moment before he mastered it, gasping and pressing his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I didn’t miss. I wasn’t a-aiming for you I’m sorry, it w-was a warning shot I was afraid,” he rattled off, needing Sherlock to understand he’d not actually tried to kill him, shaking terribly, his nerves blistered and weeping. 

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head tenderly and held him close, “John, I know. Drunk and half blind you could not have missed at that close a range. If you’d wanted me dead, I’d be dead. It never crossed my mind that you missed... only that if I didn’t get through to you that the next one wouldn’t. As much as I don’t want to die, I don’t want you to have to live with that even more.”

He gently tilted John’s head up. “It’s okay... Alright? There’s nothing to be sorry for, I don’t hold it against you, and we never have to talk about it again if you don’t want to. At the same time if you _want_ to discuss it when you’ve sobered up, we can. For now though, would you like to clean up, or just go lie down? Actually, why don’t we get you in bed and I’ll bring a warm cloth. We’ll get you wiped down and let you sleep before we try a bath with your leg out. Okay?”

He gently brushed his lips against John’s as they sat there. Nerves singing and screaming at him despite the valium. Greg had better get there early in the morning or Sherlock was going to be curled on the floor sobbing.

John made himself slow down and breathe. He was filthy and wanted a shower. “I’m going to shower and...” he trailed off, forcing his focus on Sherlock. His eyes dropped to Sherlock’s hands before sliding up his arms and touching on his face. 

He dragged his attention to the clock on the wall. It was half three in the morning. How long had Sherlock been looking for him? Had he...”Midnight meds?” he asked, cursing his own intoxication. 

Sherlock shook his head, “At Greg’s, took some of your valium, sorry... He’ll be here soon. I’ll be okay. Just, I’ll be okay. I promise, no violent outbursts from me.” Sherlock was ashamed of his earlier behavior, looking down at the floor. “I’m sorry, John, Jesus, I’m sorry. I wanted to stop hurting you...I didn’t intend to leave you like this.” He was chewing on his lip, blinking back the burn of tears. 

He took a deep breath, forcing himself calm so that he could help John. He smiled a bit as he looked back up. “I’ll be okay. Let’s take care of you, yes?”

John leaned against Sherlock, worried for him. “Take a few co-dydramol so you're not in pain okay? I am just going to take a shower and calm down I’m fine...just need to get my...need… _please don’t leave me again,_ ” he broke composure in a rush, pulling Sherlock close. 

“I only...it was that I thought I wasn’t capable of helping...you kept asking to go to Greg’s and I let him take you and _God I didn’t want to_ and I-”

Stars were cracking at the edges of his vision and he made himself shut up, breathing through his mouth, working back at his composure. 

Sherlock leaned his head against John’s, “Breathe, just breathe. God, no, I won’t leave you again...I only left... I just _kept_ hurting you. Every time I opened my mouth something else hateful came out. I couldn’t, not with how I feel. It was killing me and I couldn’t _stop._ ” Sherlock held tight to John, carrying on.

“Y-you went into your room and I knew you never wanted to see me again, but I couldn’t leave it alone. When I woke up at Greg’s I had to come home. I was nearly here when one of my homeless network alerted me. They were keeping up with you as best they could. Thank god when you dropped your mobile I could pinpoint close to where you were...”

He brushed a kiss to John’s forehead. “Never, ever leaving you. Not ever. Not again, I can’t, no. Just I can’t just. God, don’t make me leave. I know it’s not my flat anymore, but _please._ ” His nerves were thin now and he made a gentle sound of distress.

“I went to my room because I couldn’t stand to watch you leave,” John answered, touching Sherlock’s jaw where he’d struck him that first day back. He could hardly manage to get his voice above a whisper. 

He slowly untangled himself from Sherlock, swaying as he went to his feet. “‘S is your flat, don’t be an idiot,” he said carefully before propelling himself towards the lav, dropping clothes as he moved along. He reminded as he went around the corner, “co-dydramol take two co-dydramol don’t be in pain,” he muttered, leaning hard against the sink in the lav now, fingers struggling to undo the bindings around his ribs. 

Sherlock shook his head and toed off his shoes and socks when there was a knock at the door. He opened it slowly to see a rather disgruntled looking Greg standing there. “I got hauled out of bed for reports of shots fired and yelling. Someone thought they saw a body on a pile of boxes. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this would you?” He glared at Sherlock and thrust his box into his arms. “You two gits stay inside until you’re stable enough to be out, yeah?” He called out, “John! Sherlock’s got his meds. You awake?”

Sherlock huffed at him, “Go away Lestrade, he’s awake and about to shower. I’ll take these to him. Go home, curl up with Molly. Get out.” Greg muttered as he shifted back down the stairs waving over his shoulder, muttering about them the entire way.

Sherlock took the box obediently to the bedroom and set it on John’s nightstand. “S’alright if I get my midnight meds?” He looked at the box and to John, chewing on his lip, looking like a kid asking for a cookie.

John looked up, dropping his hands down in frustration. “Yeah just one sedative though,” he answered, sagging down to the closed toilet lid and moving again at getting his bindings off, looking with longing now at the shower as sweat began to dry on his skin and he increasingly felt the bite of the cold that had leached into his bones. 

Sherlock pawed through the box and gathered the pills, he popped them and swallowed, wincing at a bitter one. He moved into the bathroom and turned the shower on to warm up, shutting the door behind him so the warmth wouldn’t leech out into the bedroom. He tenderly began undoing the bindings after moving John’s hands. “Just sit... it’s ok.” 

He slowly unwound them, wrapping the bandaging in on itself as he did. He placed it to the side and trailed fingertips against John’s jaw. “I’m going to shave while you shower. It itches. I do not understand beards.”

John managed the most awkward shower of his life, one foot in, one out, water making a mess of things and he couldn’t possibly care less. He managed to clean himself somehow before rinsing and wrapping up in a towel. He grabbed a cloth and scrubbed down his plaster as well, looking back over to Sherlock.

He was so wrung out he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage collecting fresh clothes and moving to the bed. He chewed his lip and dropped his eyes to the floor, shivering hard with jangled nerves and pain. “I uh...a little...little help?”

Sherlock had really meant, ‘I’m using your razor because I don’t have one and it will probably be dull after, but that’s your problem, not mine.’ He’d managed to shave and scrub up his dirty hands. He smiled to John, meds working over him now. “Come on then.” He gently wrapped John up in his arms and helped him to the bed. He deposited him on the side and went digging through drawers. 

“What do you want? Everything? Need your bindings back on before sleep?” He turned back, surprise on his face as he held a pair of his own pyjama pants up. “You kept them... in your drawer?” He arched a brow but the smile on his face said everything. He was _delighted,_ and not in the ‘you’ll never live this down’ manner either. He laid them to the side, intending on wearing them himself.

He pulled out a pair of boxers and sweats, “Ought to be able to cut the elastic in the bottom to get it over the plaster there... If you want, that is.” He held them up questioningly.

John waved a hand, shaking his head. “Just boxers I’m so tired,” he whispered, his chest already hurting without the bindings, but he could really care less. His teeth were audibly chattering at this point and he was white-hot with pain in random areas. 

He reached for the boxers, keeping one arm wrapped around his ribs, pulling them on in a strange and uncoordinated dance where he sat. He was panting by the time he’d got them up and properly on, slowly dropping back and rolling to his side, eyes closed as he groaned, feeling utterly miserable. 

Sherlock frowned as he watched and just stripped down to his boxers, sliding his clothes out of the way and crawling into bed. He gently wrapped his arms around John, “No way to take anything I suppose? Too much already? How long?” He nuzzled the top of John’s head, careful not to put too much pressure anywhere.

He covered them up and sighed softly. “It’s alright, it’s going to be alright. I’ve got you.”

John made a pained sound and pressed closer to Sherlock, his breath catching as he moved his body. He grit his teeth and forced his mind to work. “W-was six hours ago,” he answered, biting down on the inside of his cheek as pain twisted around his spine. 

“I don’t know,” he breathed, heart racing as he realized he had no idea if he’d taken anything in that addled time on the street, “I-I don’t know,” he repeated, mostly in shock that he’d lost himself so much that he may be forced to simply ride out the pain now. 

His fingers curled around Sherlock’s shoulders as his heart raced, not wanting to fucking suffer through this another day; this felt too much like the dusty, dark floors and foreign spices. Fear gripped at him hard and he sobbed, pressing his face hard against Sherlock. 

Sherlock kissed John’s forehead softly, “Love, take something. I know my brother, he wouldn’t have sent half the stuff he did if there isn’t naloxone in there. I didn’t look, you did. Is there? I can dose you. I’ll be up long enough to watch your respirations. Okay?” 

He nuzzled John gently and lifted his chin so he was looking at him.

“Take something. You can’t lie here like this. You need your rest.”

“K...yeah, okay...” he agreed, grateful for the input. He tried to push himself up and cried out as he shifted his ribs, swearing and lying carefully back down. “I- please I-” he whispered, silent tears slipping down and dripping off the edge of his nose. 

“Calm, John. I’ve got it, just rest. I’ve got it.” Sherlock slid out of bed and padded to the kitchen, water and a straw gathered before he came back in. He dug out two pills for John and came back around. “Okay, take these.” He handed them to John and then held the water and straw so he didn’t have to try to sit up at all.

John managed the pills and then, as soon as Sherlock was back in the bed, pressed as close to him as he could manage, groaning at how terrible he felt. Something deep in his gut felt fevered, it had hardly been a good idea to hobble about London with a fresh surgical wound and exposed toes. He was an _idiot._

“Thank you,” he murmured, soaking in Sherlock’s body heat, that one little comfort making him feel worlds better already. He was calmer, knowing the medication would soon take the pain away. 

Sherlock simply wrapped John up and smiled, “You’re welcome. I’d do anything for you.” He stroked John’s hair gently. “Rest, John. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you wake. I promise. We’ll get you all healed up and this will be little more than a memory.”

He clung to John, laying little kisses to his head. “You are the most amazing man I know.”

Comforted by Sherlock, John dropped off to sleep nearly immediately. His breathing leveling out and steadying, catching every now and again but nothing alarming. His fingers remained tight in Sherlock’s shirt and he shifted closer, muttering nonsensically every now and again. 

Sherlock watched him for over an hour before he was satisfied that John wouldn’t stop breathing while they slept. He cuddled close and yawned, smiling at the feeling of John in his arms as he drifted to sleep, nerves soothed by the drugs.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of comfort, more pain, and a much more with it Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us!

John’s dreams were progressively sharper, more upsetting as the night slipped into morning. Still he slept, twitching as he uttered muted sounds of distress. When his dreams turned to Sherlock, silent tears dampened his cheeks, though nothing jolted him awake. He clung to the source of warm comfort beside him and floated along in his mind, at the mercy of his memory and imagination alike. 

Sherlock came awake slowly, nerves beginning to sing in want for chemicals he could no longer have. The night prior left him rattled and overtaxed, the soft hum of discomfort swiftly becoming a loud scream; he was going to have to take something, soon. He nuzzled John tenderly before attempting to move from the bed to take his dose, when John, in his slumber, tightened his grip and whimpered.

“John?” He murmured, sweeping his fingertips over John’s forehead, “Wake up, John...”

He came awake slowly, swimming up out of the dream on the sound of Sherlock’s voice. John blinked slowly, his overly swollen eye healed enough to open a sliver for him at last. He focused on Sherlock’s face, taking in where he was before his expression fell and he leaned forward, tucking into the join of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, dreams still fresh in his mind. 

He breathed slowly, impossibly sad and wrung out, relieved to see Sherlock there with him. He gripped him tight and slotted them as close together as he could manage. “You’re here,” he breathed, trying to steady himself. 

Sherlock frowned but held John close, “Of course I’m here. I gave my word that I’d not leave you again.” He leaned his head against John’s, gentling his voice as he spoke to calm him, “It’s okay, we’re okay, we’re home. Everything is alright.” He gently stroked John’s head as they lay there together.

“Tell me what’s got you so upset this morning?” His tone was low and rumbling as he tried to get a handle on John’s mentality. 

“I...I don’t know...just dreams I-” John shook his head as he got better control of himself, though he remained very close, tucking his head down so he could better hear Sherlock’s heart. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock hummed softly, a tune he frequently played on the violin when he was thinking. His nerves were full on shouting at him by now, desperately in need of medication. He closed his eyes and slowly filled his lungs before whispering, “John, I’ve got to get up and take some medicine. I’m sorry. I’ll be right back, just, do you want a cuppa? I need a bit of tea and to sit here with you while the medicine works.”

John let him go and gave him a nod that yes, he’d like that, thanks. He watched Sherlock warily, a sinking feeling in his chest; he’d pushed him too hard last night and now Sherlock was clearly suffering for it. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely the truth now, was it? He’d swallowed his pride and handed the reins to Greg before he’d personally fallen apart, and Greg had failed to keep him safe and cared for. He growled with anger as he leaned over and snatched up his painkillers, his body groaning with irritation at his hours-long escapades through the streets of London. 

He was bloody lucky he’d not killed anyone. 

So he waited, sitting up and staring down at his hands, his mind milling over clips of dreams and flashes of his mental state from yesterday. He worked very hard to not pick up the phone and tell Greg exactly how piss poor of a job he’d done for him, thanks. 

Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen after carefully extracting himself from John’s arms. He made them both a cuppa while gathering some fruit and nibbles, returning with a balanced tray that he sat on the dresser. He dug in his box of medication for a moment, showing John what he was taking dutifully before popping his pills.

The supplies he gathered up and put away, out of sight, before moving the tea tray to John’s bedside table. He sat down on the edge of the bed next to John before handing him a cup of tea. He was calmer now, nerves not as bad since he’d done something. Sherlock let the meds slowly sink into his system.

John pulled slowly at the tea, putting his focus to blowing across the surface and sipping at it, savoring the slight sting before the brilliant taste. His eyes slipped closed as he forced himself to take his medication, already feeling the dreaded ache work into his bones. 

He slowly shifted towards Sherlock until their shoulders were touching, steadying himself, working to calm his anger. He did not trust himself to speak, instead occupying himself with picking at the food Sherlock had remarkably thought to bring. 

Sherlock leaned into John slightly as he sipped his own tea, occasionally nibbling on a piece of fruit or a cracker. He remained quiet, looking around the room. The floor needed a proper sweeping. He huffed slightly to himself before making sure John was steadied, unable to sit still any longer. He set his tea down and started wandering around the room.

He slowly went about righting things, stealing glances at John as he worked to fix the damage John had wrought in his confused state the night last. He gathered clothes and put them with the laundry before gently straightening things in John’s closet, hanging up a few things that had fallen. This was all going to out sooner or later, this chaos between them, but he was trying his damnedest not to push any issues just then.

John watched him clean as long as he could tolerate it, shame rising heat to his cheeks for having such a juvenile outburst and tossing his room. He couldn’t be in here another minute. He pushed himself out of bed and moved to the sitting room, sinking down into his chair with his mobile in his hand. 

His knuckles blanched around the thin phone as his eyes slipped unfocused and he debated his next move. He was _furious_ with Greg, could hardly even think of Molly, and was ready to go gloveless with Mycroft in the bleeding streets. It was no good. John knew what anger like that could do to a man, had fought it off countless times before. 

He slipped around in his mind, all chaos and feeling. There was no sense of compartmentalization or order. Just- dust settling on things that _fucking hurt_ and he had no idea how to go about sorting them. Sherlock had his palace, John had, well, he’d have called it _normality_ at one point, though it clearly no longer qualified as such. 

Sherlock, still up in John’s mess of a room, let out a shaky breath when John left and sank down in front of the closet. He wrapped his arms around his legs and pulled his knees to his chest. He was shaking as the tears started. He had no idea where to go from here. There was so much pain to deal with on both sides. So much damage he’d unintentionally and then, in his fury, intentionally wrought against John. 

He let his head drop as he cried, resting his forehead down on his knees. The urge to run was there, but that had only caused problem after problem. He was so _tired_ of hurting John. He suddenly crawled to the edge of the bed, plucked John’s pillow down and wrapped up around it, the material muffling his sounds of distress.

The silence reached John after a while. He blinked himself back to awareness, leaning slightly to his room to listen for sounds of Sherlock tidying up and frowning as he heard nothing for a full minute. 

John racked his mind for what could be going on up there, settling on a disturbing thought. If there had been one secret panel, there could easily be another. He set his jaw and pushed himself to his feet, half expecting to find Sherlock with a needle in his arm when he quietly rounded the corner and froze. Sherlock was curled in on himself on the bed, coiled around John’s pillow, shoulders shaking in the telling motion of tears. 

John deliberated a moment, wavering between attempting comfort and leaving him to his privacy. 

The latter was absurd to even consider, as though he were capable of leaving Sherlock to float in his own misery. He was as silent as he could manage, rounding the bed before sitting down gently just behind Sherlock, a warm palm fanning out over his shoulder blades. 

“Hey,” he whispered, slipping fingers up into Sherlock’s hair, his chest heavy as he watched Sherlock falling apart. He bit his lip and dropped his hands away, pulling his damned leg up on the bed and fitting himself to Sherlock’s back, wrapping his arms tight around him. He was silent as Sherlock grieved, no idea what the right words were. 

Sherlock suddenly shifted and buried his face against John’s chest, still crying. He was babbling to John now, the mental dam broken, “I cannot tolerate my inability to cease this endless infliction of pain on you. I do not intend to wound and yet it is all I do! It’s all gone wrong.” He was having trouble catching his breath, winding himself up further. “I cannot divert from the thought that I should run from you, but I have no desire to leave you. I simply want to protect you from me.”

John held onto Sherlock, taken aback by the force of his emotion. He held his tongue, allowing his fingers to skate over Sherlock’s back, slip through his hair. It didn't help that he held the same beliefs as Sherlock, only about himself instead. Additionally he was, in fact, still bitterly _hurt_ by all of this, by everyone he loved. Sherlock had been at the core of it. Try as he might to shift his rage to a dead man, Moriarty was not here, and ultimately, Sherlock was the one who made the call to enact such a plan. 

The fuse had been lit, and John had been strapped unwittingly to the end of it. Sherlock’s intentions had clearly been pure, for once. That reality was the _only_ portion of this that gave him any hope that this could be resolved. Sherlock had ultimately been trying to help. 

He waited as Sherlock began to tire, longer breaks in sound so that John could actually speak to him, whispering calm assurances and little truths that he hoped would help. 

Sherlock eventually calmed and his grip on John faltered, torn between letting him go and _terrified_ to face John after such a display. He could not remain as he was forever, slowly filling his lungs and then slowly sitting up, eyes not meeting John’s face. Sherlock dropped his attention to a treat protruding from the bedclothes as he sat there, silent for a few moments before finally uttering a hoarse, quiet, “Thank you.” 

He chewed on his bottom lip and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He needed a shower and a hair cut. “I- I need a shower.”

John watched him closely, feeling the shift between them, the odd sense of a wall that seemed to just fly up. He didn’t care for it at _all_. Slowly he leaned forward, moving his hands to slide along Sherlock’s cheeks, fingertips in Sherlock’s hair. 

“Hey,” he whispered, ducking down to catch Sherlock’s attention, “Hey, I’m not… today- I’m- this has been about _me_ this morning. I’m- and _Greg_ just let you walk out when you needed help, but I should have been the one helping you. I’m angry at myself right now, not _you_.” He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “It’s a mess, but it’s _always_ been a mess. Don’t… please don’t run from me.”

Sherlock gave a shuddering sigh of relief as he kissed John again, a brief, gentle pressure, “Oh Gods, I thought, I couldn’t,” he took a deep breath. “I thought I’d driven you away. I could not tolerate it. I keep wanting to take off, to run, to put as much distance between you and I as possible. Though only because I feel like I keep destroying you.”

His jaw worked as he fought not to cry again. “I _detest_ this part, when the bone chilling sorrow creeps in. It’s always the same, always. Anger replaced by sorrow and this time I’ve got scads of ammunition for both.” He took a calming breath. “My hair is entirely too long.”

John smiled at Sherlock's sudden topic shift and reached up, combing his fingers through the strands. “We can have someone come today and put it to rights, if you think you can manage to not shout them through the ceiling,” he replied, tugging gently at the strands on the ends. 

“Go have a shower, let your medication help you. I’ll just be right here,” he added calmly, already tired, painkillers _finally_ managing their work properly. He wrapped an arm around his chest and eased back. “We’ll get you to the other side of this, Sherlock, we will.”

Sherlock nodded and slunk to the bathroom, turning on the taps and muttering at the broken mirror. He’d call Mycroft later and have him send money to Mrs. Hudson. It was Mycroft’s bloody fault after all. He left the door partially open and managed to crawl in as he stripped out of his boxers, murmuring as the hot water hit him. 

He scrubbed himself as he stood under the warm spray, amused as the smell of John’s soap triggered a memory of the first day they’d met. The bloody cane. He actually laughed out loud as he remembered the look on John’s face when Angelo dropped it off.

When the taps were shut off and steam billowing through the lav, Sherlock stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his hips. He stared at his fractured reflection as he tugged on pyjama bottoms and toweled over his sodden curls -which were _everywhere_ , he’d never allowed such length to it- before walking back into the bedroom with John, thoughts still on the cane, “At least you need the crutches, which should be back here soon. Network is supposed to show up with your belongings today.” 

John blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden mention of his crutches. The ones he’d lost in his panicked efforts to escape the non-threat that he’d imagined, since he was apparently cracking. _At least you need the crutches._ He wondered how long it was going to take Sherlock to puzzle out that he was likely to need a cane for the foreseeable future now, unlikely ever to be as athletic as before. His jaw ticked with tension at that reality but he let the thought go for now, not at all wanting to be angry. 

And then Sherlock wore an expression that John hadn’t seen for years. The sudden return to familiarity nearly took his knees out. He sucked in a deep breath as his heart rolled over and he was suddenly _painfully homesick._ It was absurd, wishing for home while sitting in his own bed. 

“You look like a wet dog,” he countered with a half-smile, choosing to express fond irritation rather than the torrent of clustered emotion tangled hard in his chest. 

Sherlock huffed. “A dog should be so lucky,” There was the return to arrogance. He’d likely mentally break down again before this was over and the withdrawal, but for the moment he was back, firmly in control of his emotions. He reached out and trailed fingertips along John’s jaw. “What would you like to do today? I can have someone bring up food from Speedy’s? Neither of us nourished properly, I’d wager.” His mind flashed to the violin nestled safely in John’s trunk. He’d see to her today, take care of her.

He looked over John carefully, hesitating before pressing forward with his question, “How long were you there? Captured, I mean.” 

The question took him by surprise, color draining from his face as he shook his head. “I don’t know. Two weeks? Three? I never asked. I was chained to a floor… and then there were British soldiers shooting down the place and then I was at Bart’s with Mycroft. I woke up. He told me you were alive and strung out and they couldn’t find you, and I signed out and left.”

He’d not really given it thought. He didn’t know the status of his leg, hell he’d never spoken to a physician or seen his own record. He shrugged, wincing as he moved, and eased deeper into the bed. 

“Why?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I don’t know. I’ve no idea how long I was on the streets. Sometimes it felt like hours between times I saw Greg, sometimes weeks. I’m guessing it was more like a couple of days each time...” Sherlock sighed softly thinking back, trying to remember.

“He’d find me, mostly, before a bust was coming through. He’d sweep through whatever house beforehand, looking scruffy, stumbling. Then he’d yank me out of there, throw me in a pay-by-the-hour type place and tell me to clean up. I've never had you thrown in my face so much before, all while believing you dead.”

He sat down finally, perched on the edge of the bed next to John. He reached across and pulled his mobile into his hands, fingers flying across the keyboard. He was silent for a few minutes, obviously texting back and forth before finally looking up.

“Someone will be along to cut my hair this afternoon and the mirror should be replaced tomorrow. Bloody Mycroft.”

“Yeah, okay,” John replied, nodding his head and feeling a bit… he didn’t know. It was fucking irritating, whatever it was. He watched Sherlock for a while before tugging at the blankets, suddenly shouting as he torqued his ribs. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing himself to sit up, “I need to wrap these damned things,” he groused, looking down at his bruised chest as white-hot anger licked up his spine. He was so bloody _weak_ it was _pathetic_. He bit down on his lip and curled his fist at his side, forcing himself to look at Sherlock in question. “Could you-” he muttered, obviously angry and humiliated, “please.”

Sherlock caught how reluctant John was to ask, moving slowly as he leaned in and brushed a kiss to John’s forehead. He stood back up without a word and walked back into the still damp lav, collecting the carefully wrapped bindings from the counter and returning to John’s side. He slowly knelt before John, his hands ghosting against John’s tender ribs, “Tell me if it’s too tight, or not tight enough... are you ready?”

He looked up at him with the question, giving John ample time to refuse his help.

John shivered as Sherlock touched him, gooseflesh trailing in the wake of fingertips. He stiffly rose his elbows up, nodding to Sherlock, despising the need for help. Today seemed to be a day where nothing but anger was going to get through, and he was keen to be left alone before he did some sort of damage to person or property. Much as he wanted to rage against something or someone. 

He forced himself to take in Sherlock as he was now; calm and controlled, yet… different, somehow. Perhaps it was Sherlock’s abrupt return to his usual self, even if temporary, that made John feel a bit inferior, his own ability to regain himself lacking in comparison. 

“Yeah, ‘s fine,” he clipped, shoving his pride away. 

Sherlock wisely left the tones alone, merely beginning the process. He’d not needle John today, the man was on edge and any snap in either of them was likely to send the flat spinning into chaos. He worked the binding back on, taking John’s instruction as he did so. After a few nerve wracking minutes and no small amount of pain on both sides it was done.

He sat back on his heels and looked up at him. “There. Rest.” He stood and stretched as a knock on the door sounded. “I’ll get that.” 

He came back a few moments later, John’s crutches and bag in hand. He set them carefully on the bed beside John. 

John had worked his way deep into the bed by the time Sherlock came back. He cracked his eyes open to see what he had in his hands and groaned, shutting them tight and rolling away, his breath catching as he upset his body. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, suddenly on the verge of tears. He held his lips in a tight line and shrank in on himself, caught between the desire to completely disappear and find someone to beat within an inch of their life. From where he was in that moment, there was no hope left. He was war damaged, physically incapable, and impossibly wounded by a man he could not live without. He should have taken the shot at his own foolish face the night before and spared everyone all of this. 

Sherlock frowned and set the things off the bed. He moved and then slid in beside John, He gently wrapped his arms around John and snuggled close to him. “John... I’ve got you. The pair of us, we will be alright. We will manage through this.” 

A thousand different replies sped across John’s mind, a few narrowly held behind his lips as he listened to Sherlock pass on platitudes he did not for a second believe. Sherlock was _trying_ at the very least, and John had already put him to tears for being upset with him today. 

The clinical side of his mind recognized this for what it was. Anger was easier and safer than all the roiling undercurrent below it, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to contain. He _wanted_ up out of the bed, _wanted_ to shout Sherlock into next week for all of this, _wanted_ to get on the phone and reduce Molly to tears, _wanted_ to bloody Mycroft in public. 

None of those options were viable. 

If he rejected Sherlock, he ran the very real risk of losing him forever. If he was left alone, there was the matter of his cracked sanity to address. If he damaged his only friends in they way they’d damaged him...

He grit his teeth and pressed his face hard down into his pillow, his fists balled so tight his nails were cutting into his palms, and forced himself to try and breathe through this without destroying his entire world. 

Sherlock took a deep breath as he watched John. He had his lip caught between his teeth again before he spoke, “Would you like to be left alone? Just for a bit? I’ll go to the sitting room, turn on the telly and let you have some time to yourself.” His words were gentle, as least antagonistic as he could possibly make them. John was trying not to blow up. His body language screaming that he was possibly seriously considering strangling him, if not everyone.

He eased back some to gauge the reaction. His eyes keeping careful watch as his brain fired. He’d need to take his second dose soon, though right now, he had no desire to broach that subject with John. He hummed softly, taking up a tune John had shown interest in more than once when he’d played it.

“Please,” John muttered through grit teeth, thankful that Sherlock had picked up on his distress before he lost himself. He nearly added an ‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ but that would be a lie. He wasn’t sorry. He didn’t _need_ to be sorry for this. John had done everything for Sherlock, and Mycroft, and Molly, and in return they’d lodged knives in his back and then petted him for his pain. 

Sherlock slid out of the bed, stopping long enough to retrieve his violin and the soft bag that held his rosin. He let himself out of the room and shut the door behind him. His body was screaming at him for his medication. He set the violin down in his physical distress, looking around for a moment. Suddenly he decided to swept through, picking up small messes to ease the anxiety and soon had the living room to rights.

He’d just moved to sit down so he could work on the tuning and care when there was a knock at the door. He opened it to find a long time friend of his family’s standing there. She was glaring at him while brandishing a pair of sharp scissors. “You sit in a kitchen chair and don’t speak to me. I’ll come back for a cuppa at some point when I don’t want to stab you with these. Pretending to commit suicide. _Sherlock._ ” 

He winced and meekly went to the chair, cowed by her tone in his weakened mental state. She set her bag down on the table and pulled out an apron for him, flarring it out and fastening it around him with practiced movements, “Ought to shave your head for what you put all of us through.” She shook her head, “Too tan, scarred, honestly, Sherlock. Damn you.”

She was mercifully silent as she cut his hair. His long locks slowly disappearing into the the mop he usually wore. She tilted his head here and there until she was satisfied, pausing near the end as there was a knock from downstairs. She huffed and set the scissors aside, walking out of the kitchen to answer the door. Several garment bags were deposited on the sofa before a small suitcase was brought up. Sherlock smiled at the sight of his clothing back within reach. She shooed one of Mycroft’s flunkies back out and returned to Sherlock's hair.

She made a few more snips and held up the mirror. Sherlock finally spoke. “I’m sorry Jane... thank you.” She threatened him with the scissors. “Just, shut up, I’ll come back when I can handle this. I’m too angry to speak with you anymore. You can clean this mess up yourself.”

She shook the hair to the floor and folded her apron back, opening her mouth to say something before shaking her head and stuffing everything in her bag. She was gone and down the stairs before Sherlock could think of anything else to say.

He sighed and stood in the ring of fallen black curls, looking down at the mess. He swept the kitchen carefully, gathering the long strands and putting them in the bin before moving to his clothing, fingers trailed lovingly across garment bags before he gathered them and took everything upstairs. Soon his clothing was put away in the closet. Sherlock dressed in trousers and a cream shirt, smiling as he buttoned the sleeves. He pulled on a pair of his shoes and sighed happily before moving back down to the sitting room to take up the care of his violin.

His fingers were nimble, loving while he tended the wood and then and tuned her, eyes closing as he dragged the bow across the strings and calling up the long familiar pure notes of G, D, A, and E. It was not long before the hesitant sounds of his bow strokes sent notes across the flat. Satisfied that he'd put her to rights, he finally began to play, slipping into Ode to Joy, an exercise in refreshing his skill after nineteen months without a bow in his hand.

John, as soon as he was left to his own devices, was up and out of the bed. He moved to the lav and shucked off his clothes, pitching them to the side with too much force, slamming open the taps. 

He made an effort, for about two minutes, not to get his plaster wet. It was so uncomfortable and clumsy to try and manage, and the damned thing was filthy and needed off anyhow. With a growled _fuck it_ he just dragged his foot into the water, not giving a damn. The heat of the water slipping into the plaster and settling on the skin under the wrappings, sent stinging pain up his leg that he latched onto like a touchstone; the blistered nerves providing something else outside of bitter, frustrated anger for his furious mind to tackle. 

He scrubbed himself pink, working over the bruises, sick to death of Afghanistan still on him. He’d need to go to the clinic today, after this. When his heart stopped slamming so hard against his ribs, he looked down at his legs, shaking his head. 

_Well fucking done, John._

He shouted, throwing his fist at the tile. There was _nothing_ to soothe this impossible torrent inside his chest, so like a horrid itch he couldn’t scratch. Wildly he thought to the sedatives in his night table before growling and shoving the thought away. Sherlock would _never_ let him live that down. He’d never be able to say fuck-all about Sherlock’s addiction if he reached for pills right now. 

He pressed his face into the spray and forced himself to spend the next few minutes focused on his breathing, slowly calming himself down. He shifted, the foot with the plaster far too heavy now. What had he been thinking?

He’d managed a strange sense of calm by the time he turned the taps off, numbness blanketing him, the blessed hum of pain across his body the perfect distraction. He towled off and sat on the closed toilet for a while, letting the plaster drain as much as it would. He mussed about the lav naked, brushing his teeth in the shattered mirror, taking a razor to his face. 

The damned thing was dull. _Thanks, Sherlock_. He pitched it angrily to the bin and tugged out another, the crazy plastic packaging giving his bruised fingers hell. He grit his teeth and prised the thing free, setting into finishing up with the washing. 

Steam chased him out into his room as he limped to his dresser, foot squelching in the fabric lining the plaster. He tugged on an undershirt and then a Phoenix sweatshirt before carefully threading on sweatpants. He dropped to the edge of the bed as the calm, testing notes of a violin slipped in through the walls. He stopped entirely, ears perked to the tune, closing his eyes and breathing slowly as _home_ slithered along his nerves for a moment. The reprieve was short as his toes squelched in the plaster again, reminding him of his lack of emotional control, on top of everything else.

He picked up his mobile and put a call into the clinic, letting them know he was coming, before texting Greg to ask for a ride. Greg was… had done a piss-poor job of watching Sherlock, but he’d not wounded John intentionally. He found his crutches beside the bed, toed on a single shoe, and hobbled out into the sitting room. 

Sherlock looked up at the telltale sound of crutches. He dropped the violin from its place tucked against himself, “Off out?” It was more of a statement than a question. Sherlock plucked nervously at the violin. It looked like Baker Street before The Fall. Sherlock standing there regally in his designer clothes and John somewhat worse for wear, ultimately because of Sherlock’s antics.

He put the violin back in place and set into his thinking song, knowing John would shout at him to stuff it if needed. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He couldn’t help the observation though, “They’re not meant to get wet, you know,” he remarked of the sodden plaster

“If only I’d tapped into that shining intellect of yours before my damned shower,” John returned, openly staring at Sherlock. He was… it was just _Sherlock_ standing there as though nothing at all had happened, the last year and a half had simply occurred for John, not the aloof man entirely put together and behaving as normal in his sitting room. 

He was suddenly self-conscious in his raggedy sweats, face sliding from angry to sick. He looked like a cosmic joke, and Sherlock..

John’s jaw twitched and he shook his head, looking away. “If I leave you here with those pills...I know how many there are, Sherlock, so don’t be an idiot. Two more of each within the hour, ok?”

He turned his back and began the difficult process of getting himself downstairs, hoping to hell Greg would be waiting. 

Sherlock huffed at John’s back but appeared at the top of the stairs, making sure John made it to the bottom safely before disappearing back into the doorway and shutting the door. He hummed softly and set to pulling his things out of John’s trunk. He made a call and soon had the Belstaff and scarf off to the cleaners. The one who wouldn’t blanch at the long left blood. The scarf was likely ruined, but he was sure, with work, the Belstaff would survive.

Greg was pulling up just as John made it outside. He hobbled to the side of the car and let himself in before Greg had a chance to get out and open the door for him. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, buckling himself into the passenger seat. 

Greg nodded at him, sweeping his eyes over John before putting the car back in drive, heading to Bart’s. “John you-”

John held up a hand and shook his head, “Please, Greg, please don’t. I know I’m not what everyone wants right now. I know. Just let it alone.”

The rest of the trip was managed in silence. Greg pulled them up close to the clinic and hovered at John’s side in case he needed help, pulling open doors and whatnot for him. The DI waited in the main room as John was taken directly back, perks of the job and all that. 

He thumbed through his own chart as the ortho sawed off the sodden plaster, hissing as his skin was exposed to the air. Pale and wrinkled, and a long, angry incision running from the top of his foot to the center of his shin, his leg looked absurd. He leaned down, tracing a finger along the wound. At least it wasn’t infected. 

He managed to talk them into a fitted boot instead of a new plaster, listening to the warnings of damage he could do to the nerves if he didn’t take care. It was a clean shot, in through the top of his ankle, out the back of his heel, lucky to have avoided the achilles. He had enough metal work along the bones to set off machines, but he’d managed to not need external pins. ‘Lucky’ got tossed about as though it were the definition of his life. 

He learned that the swelling to his face had been mostly fractured orbitals, surely almost healed at this point. He’d a few cracked ribs, but the majority of the damage had been tissue. He’d be alright. 

Sherlock spent the time John was gone playing and playing until his fingers started to ache and his body was tensing. He looked at the clock and cursed. A half hour past the longest John had said wait. He moved into the bedroom and took out the pills before shoving the box back into the drawer.

He took the pills and made another phone call. He wanted good sheets for upstairs, if nothing else to give each other space when needed. Sherlock had no idea where the hell this was all going, but they’d need opposite corners to retreat to.

John came back out to Greg nearly an hour later, feeling lighter at the very least, much freer with a boot instead of a cast. He nodded at him, and they made their way back to the car. 

“John,” Greg began, daring another look at him, “Molly is… you cannot imagine how upset she is that you-”

And just like that, his anger flared back to life, white hot and bloodthirsty. “Shut up, Greg, I cannot talk about Molly right now. Give me time, okay? Please." His left hand shaking suddenly, shoving his trembling fingers into his pocket and going silent before he shouted at his friend again. He said nothing as they pulled up to Baker Street. 

John let himself out of the car and made it clear he had no want for Greg to follow him. He hobbled back up the steps and let himself inside, taking his time up the steps. The door to the flat was closed and he shook his head, forgetting that he'd shut it when he left. Three steps later he stopped up short, eyes locked to Sherlock as he realized he'd completely forgot the man had returned.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was lounging in his chair and looked up at John, “Hello...” He stood and moved to the kitchen where the kettle was just beginning to boil. “Cuppa? I managed to get hold of that kind you like so much.” He didn’t mention it had taken about all he had to manage to get down the road to the store that carried it. He held up the bag and the tea ball. “Don’t know how much you put in the ball though.”

He looked up again, waiting, somewhat tensely on John’s answer. He’d already thrown a bag into his own cup and set John’s bag of loose tea down to pour water over his, the smell of chamomile wafting through the apartment. God knew he needed the calming nature of it right then. He wasn’t sure he could handle angry John without either storming about or bursting into tears.

He pulled out the sandwiches and crisps he’d brought from Speedy’s where he’d been keeping them warm in the oven and set them on the table, chewing his lip with nerves.

John followed him into the kitchen, a bit shocked that Sherlock had gone to all the trouble. “Tea, yeah, uh, thanks,” he said carefully as he went to his mug and started working on the tea. He rest his crutches against the counter and moved to the table, stirring the sugar into the hot liquid. 

He eased himself into a chair at the table and stared at the food, milling over Sherlock’s efforts. He took a sandwich and raised it slightly at Sherlock before taking a bite, making his best go at civility. 

Sherlock sat beside him at the table and glanced down, “Better than the plaster I’ll wager.” he remarked of the boot before he shut up and picked at his chips, tucking into the sandwich. His nerves were flickering, anger creeping around the edges at the way John was treating everything. He chewed, willing himself to stay calm. He’d not ruin the uneasy truce they had going. Not now. The two of them would have plenty of time to shout each other down when John was healed and Sherlock wasn’t on the edge of a withdrawal based breakdown.

He sipped the tea and nibbled more at the sandwich. Grateful to have Speedy’s after eighteen months of every sort of cuisine the planet had to offer. This was normal, this was good.

John dropped his eyes to his throbbing foot. “Yeah...feels better. Shattered a bunch of bone, have plates and that rot. Was a clean shot, did what it was supposed to.”

He finished the last of his sandwich and tucked back into his tea. He flicked his eyes over Sherlock, “It’s bloody strange to suddenly see you like...well, _you_ ,” he said carefully. Sherlock looked amazing, which should make him happy, he knew. In reality, that fact slithered under his skin and whispered his own inadequacy to him. It was wrong of him to feel that way, not something he was normally prone to. He set his jaw, wondering where the hell any of that was coming from. He’d never really cared how he looked in comparison to his flatmate. Perhaps it was the unrelenting reminder that he was not recovering himself from his own trauma nearly as swiftly as he should.

Sherlock hummed at that, “Sorry, I can change back to plain clothes if you’d prefer. I’ve simply not been permitted to be _me_ in quite a long time. John... I...what I became... such a disturbing individual.” His eyes narrowed and his jaw ticked for a moment. His voice turned gravelly and deeper for a moment as scenes flashed through his mind, “I’m far more like James Moriarty than anyone would like to consider, myself included.”

He rose abruptly, clearing his dishes from the table, the shift in demeanor there to stay for now. The months of twisting information from little cogs in Moriarty’s machine, sometimes with incredible violence, was not easy to escape. The withdrawal had masked his more sinister side. Now, here, while he was momentarily stable from all of that, it was shining through. 

He turned back to John, voice clipped, tone still dark, “I’ve taken it upon myself to ensure the upstairs bedroom is hospitable. I’ve no way to anticipate what lies ahead between us, and so thought it best we’ve each our own corners to which we may retreat, should the ring become a bit too aggressive. That, and my...your closet is woefully small..” Sherlock was trying articulate that he’d not be abandoning John to sleep alone unless the man asked that Sherlock leave him. 

John’s mind had hung on James Moriarty. He was watching Sherlock in the same way he’d set his eyes to a child wandering along the perimeter of FOB in Afghanistan; could be a threat, could be nothing, either assumption was a foolish risk. He took in every change in Sherlock’s posture, the way he was carrying himself, the tension between his shoulders. Since his return, John had become acutely sensitive to threats of aggression, no matter how mild or unlikely. 

He leaned back in his chair and listened to Sherlock carry on about the rooms and sheets, making his excuses and the like. Sherlock wanted to move out of the room they’d been sharing. It was probably a good idea, but it cut deeply all the same. Sure, they’d been tense with one another, but John had not expected Sherlock to leave him like that. That was entirely unfair to Sherlock. John himself had no idea how he felt towards Sherlock or what was growing between them, and so it was not logical or fair to fault Sherlock his want to retreat from such close quarters with John. 

“Yeah, okay,” he finally answered, his thumb pushing the handle of his mug this way and that. 

“Right then...” Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly what was flickering along the edges of his own mood right now, but he was fairly sure it could prove dangerous. At the very least, it could lead to a very loud argument. “I’m off, out, somewhere. I can’t stay in this damned room any longer.” His jaw clenched, biting off the words. He did not want to have it out with John, and that storm was looming, angry and swollen.

He stood in the middle of the room, looking lost until it dawned on him the Belstaff wasn’t in its rightful place and he huffed. “Damned coat isn’t back from the cleaners.”

John watched him with a growing sense of dread. He knew better than attempt keeping Sherlock in the flat, it wouldn’t end well. He didn’t have the strength for it. His anger downshifted hard, breaking under the realization that he was soon to be left on his own again. The very idea of isolation caused a near debilitating wave of anxiety. He should have said something to his doctor, but he’d been...it was a shameful condition and he hadn’t been ready to admit it yet. 

He cleared his throat and donned the best air of indifference he could manage for Sherlock’s sake, not wanting to put him off or allow him to hear the near panic John was wrestling with. This wasn’t Sherlock’s duty, to babysit John whenever he was foolishly afraid of himself. “Will you be coming back tonight?”

That did it. That indifference in John’s voice, Sherlock fairly thundered at him, storm breaking over the two of them, “Do you even _care_ if I return? What has all this been? Some idiotic sense of duty? Let’s have a bit of fun at Sherlock’s expense... he’s finally learned that he can love, now is the ideal time to twist the knife?” His hand balled up beside him as he glared across the room at John, stepping closer. There was a tone in Sherlock’s voice. An odd sort of quality as the man he’d been forced to be for the past eighteen months surfaced.

He leered at John, his entire demeanor shifting under the weight of his anger. “If you will recall, I did not once ask for you to do any of this, John. I was quite well off solving cases with you at my side, resigned to feel for you at a distance. After all, you’re not gay, or so you’ve shouted to any and all who would dare to mistake you in something as untoward as a _relationship_ with _me_. I’m a sociopath, no proper feelings, a _machine_. Now, I’ve become dangerous. You were a soldier, yes, a fine one at that, but do not forget that I was just as those who put you in the state you currently find yourself; tortured and damaged.”

Sherlock’s anger was rolling off him in waves. This was not a typical fit, what with the slamming and breaking of things in a fit of pique. No, this was every dark place he’d been, every man he’d tortured for information, every last cell of Moriarty’s web he’d destroyed.

John kept a sharp eye on Sherlock as he slowly, purposefully rose up from his chair, holding his ground as the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. Dizzying adrenalin pulsed through him as his closest friend suddenly faded, and a very real, very dangerous threat took his place. He swept his eyes over Sherlock, knowing quite well that the man in front of him in this moment was a complete stranger. He held his posture tight and kept his tone even and level despite his fear, as Sherlock’s anger threatened to take this all apart. 

“Don’t think I’ve not thought of that, don’t think I imagine you’ve been...I _know_ what you’ve been doing. Why do you think I’ve been so _angry_ with you? I could have helped you, could have spared you taking the road you did. But you didn’t _trust me_ more than you trusted the brother who sold you out and our little pathologist, and _look what’s happened._ ”

His heart was thundering in his chest but his exterior was placid and sharp. “You talk of love. Of _love_! You do not l _ove me,_ Sherlock. I fit in your puzzle where and when you want me to. I- you were- goddamn it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stepped closer, movements fluid, dangerous. His voice curled about John’s ears softly, his body stilling just the other side of the table from John. He leaned across it so his eyes were level with John’s given their height difference, palms and fingers splayed across the surface. “Do not tell me I do not not love you. Do not _presume_ to know who I do and do not trust. I kept you from this to keep you safe. I cannot abide the thought of a world without you in it. You aren’t a puzzle to figure out, you aren’t a piece in mine. You are a _part of me_ , a part of what makes me whole. You can be angry with me. You can hate me... but do not _ever_ dare to tell me I do not love you again.”

Sherlock stood again, chin tilted up slightly as he gazed evenly at John. He was dead calm, probably calmer than John had ever seen him in his time with Sherlock. 

John’s eyes flashed and his muscles locked up tight as Sherlock moved as he did, threatening, dangerous. Panic shot like electricity down his spine and he gave a half-step of ground in retreat. Sherlock was prattling on with words John could hardly stand to hear, his tone grating down all the raw things in his mind. When Sherlock articulated his warning, John’s eyes jumped between Sherlock’s and the exit, feeling the walls closing in on him. Sherlock’s position was effectively blocking the way out. 

John’s palms were sweating as his dizzying fear morphed into pure, defensive _rage_. He gratefully clung to the defense mechanism, armor in the face of stoked fear. 

He waved a hand at Sherlock and growled, “You need to fucking stow whatever the fuck this is, or you need to get the hell out of my face.” Sherlock was scaring the goddamn daylights out of John.

Sherlock calmly began unbuttoning his sleeves before moving to his neck and slowly working down the buttons across his chest. He pulled the shirt from his pants and draped it over the chair as he watched John. “I’d rather not stain it,” he explained in an offhand manner, clearly indicating that violence was impending, and Sherlock intended it to be bloody.

He tilted his head and tapped the side of his face not already bruised by John’s fist, his eyes never leaving John’s. “Have you got it in you? Or did they break the great Captain John Watson?”

Sherlock had been replaced by a sucking vortex, robbing the room of oxygen as reality imploded around him. For a few horrifying seconds, John was honestly afraid he’d simply pass out and that would be the end of it. Sherlock would take him apart and no one would be any the wiser. 

He shifted his weight off his bad leg, higher thinking shutting down on itself as he fell into gunpowder and spice, his awareness clipped to the threat in the room. 

His stomach dropped away, replaced with a distillery of adrenalin. He’d not find himself chained down to the goddamn floor ever again. His eyes flicked from Sherlock, to the exit, to the surrounding kitchen fare that could easily become projectile, his heart surging in his ears, vision tunneling as reality started to melt away from him, confusion setting in. 

He deliberated a moment, knowing Sherlock had nearly every physical advantage in his corner; he was not already wounded, had a good deal of reach on him, and was clearly so shuttered against John that hurting John would not give him pause. The latter would not be the same for him. He doubted he’d even be able to swing on Sherlock. He opted of speech before movement. 

“You don’t want to do this,” he warned off, leaning into a position that would lend his back and shoulder to any blow he’d throw if forced to physically defend himself, his tone dangerous and unyielding even as he wanted to cower and run. 

“You don’t know _anything_ about me John Watson, you haven’t bothered to learn since I’ve been back. I’ve warned you about making assumptions.” Sherlock moved from behind the table backing into the room arms spread. “Out of your face, refusing to stow anything. We will have this out now, thank you.”

He tilted his head again, tapping the unblemished cheek again, “Come on, free shot, even in your state you can manage one punch... sure could handle it against a mostly still drugged individual the other night, anyhow. You were in worse shape then.” Sherlock was still calm, but he was strung tighter than his damn violin at the moment.

“Prove to me again how you had bad days, John Watson, show them to me and I’ll be glad to trade stories. Dark jungles, dry deserts, and everything in between.”

John relaxed his posture slightly as Sherlock gave him ground. He listened to all of it, the words soaking deep under his skin, coating his mind, feeding his fears and touching all the raw places. He stared at him, fists curled tight and the prickling of narrowly-constrained danger caressing his nerves. 

Sherlock appeared physically strong, but it was potentially a ruse. John pushed all of the venomous words to the corner of his mind and simply studied Sherlock’s physical stature. It was possible that he could get a decent hook in and lay him out. Anything at all to take back the physical advantage before his PTSD took him to the floor without Sherlock laying a hand on him. 

Sherlock knew how he ticked. Knew _exactly_ how he ticked. He’d opened John up and pressed hard on the soft spots, poked ruthlessly at the bleeds. 

God, did it hurt. Everyone John had been fool enough to hand his trust over to had taught him what a idiot he was for it. He advanced on Sherlock without thought. “Why? What is it that I’m not telling you? Do you need to hear that you scare the Christ out of me? That I know you’ve been torturing men? That I know there is something dark in you? Is that it? What have I so completely failed to do that has you out for blood, Sherlock?” He shouted, not even limping with the adrenalin so completely masking his pain. 

“You want a fight? Fine. I’m happy to bleed for you as always,” he hissed, suddenly swinging _hard_ , tossing all his weight into the thing, not one to pass up the chance to protect himself, and Sherlock had made him believe he was about to seriously harm him.

Sherlock’s head swam when the punch landed, body rocking backwards as he stumbled with the force of it. _Christ_ , he’d underestimated John in this shape. He growled as he fought to stand. stumbling slightly as he did before putting a hand on his chair to keep himself upright. He glared at John as he focused on him once more.

“All I ever wanted you to fucking do was tell me you _cared_. To acknowledge that you realized there were reasons I did what I did.” He took a step back towards John. “To maybe, just maybe admit that you realized how I felt even if you didn’t feel the same way. But no, you just keep throwing it in my damned face.”

Sherlock was seething, visibly angry now, but there was a deep, lonely hurt lancing through his words as he stared down at John, “So go ahead.” he tapped the other side of his face. “Just keep going, because _this_ is pain I can handle.”

It took everything he had not to return the punch in kind. Had John been well and standing in front of him they’d have already been rolling about the floor trading punches.

John was reeling. He staggered back when Sherlock hadn’t struck him. The threat had been _empty_ for God’s sake. Empty, and John had become violent. All this talk from Sherlock warning John of his nature, and John was the only of the pair that had struck and struck again. 

He stared wide-eyed and wild at Sherlock, adrenalin bleeding away. He reached behind him, grabbing the back of the sofa as his face washed white and he sank down into it, nauseous and miserable. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, hardly above a whisper, “I- you frightened me I thought-” he held Sherlock’s eye, his mouth dry and ears ringing. 

“How could you not see that I _care_? I’ve...Jesus I’ve tried to-” His brows knit and his hands were shaking too hard to make proper fists any longer. 

“I _love_ you. I was afraid to give you that leverage. You’ve used so much against me in the past.”

Sherlock sat down heavily in his chair as he stared at John, the words ricocheting around his brain over and over. John loved him. _Loved_ him. He scrubbed a hand of his face, hissing as he hit the throbbing area.

“Provoked you intentionally... definitely angry enough to hit back. Couldn’t, not looking at that eye of yours still almost swollen shut, your face is still a mess.” He took a deep breath, “Would have taken you to the floor if you’d been well, likely we’d still be rolling around down there, breaking things.”

John’s admission had totally deflated him, dissipated any lingering anger. “I... John the things I did while away.” He shook his head, a look of almost horror flashing across his face. His voice was suddenly quiet. “The thing is, the worst thing of it all? Is how much I _enjoyed_ it.”

He was staring at the rug now, tracing the lines in it with his eyes as he continued speaking, “What kind of man am I? Not one who deserves your love, that’s for certain. One who would provoke you into the admission.” He stood and shook his head. “Sherlock Holmes is not a man at all.” his jaw clenched for a moment. “He’s just a larger spider.”

John stared at him, muttering silent prayers to non-existent gods that the walls would cave in and snuff them out. Sherlock was falling, right where he sat. John was watching it happening, the suddenly swift advancement to an event horizon he’d never be able to pull him back from. 

_Why_ had he allowed his fear to overcome his head? 

John did not know the details, but he’d seen the man in question. In their little kitchen, behind mugs of tea and familiar comfort, the same sort of man that shouted him deaf, thrashed him bloody in darkened caves, emerged. One in the same. The enemy was _right there_ , just needing the right aggressors to stoke him to life. 

He exhaled slowly and touched his fingers to his lips, milling over his thoughts. 

“Sherlock,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, “you took the network down, you didn’t conquer it for yourself. Moriarty took old women and children from their homes and delighted in their pain. You...you went after his pawns. There is a difference.” 

Darkness was threatening the edges of John’s vision, knowing that Sherlock had wanted to physically hurt even John. He shook it away, still unclear of what threat remained, how safe he was.

“I’ve known I’ve loved you since you told me I was your note,” he confessed, dropping his eyes to his hands. “I’m sorry it took me so long to understand.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing, looking to John, voice suddenly close to breaking. “May I sit next to you?” His hands were folded over one another, fingers twined together as he finally met John’s eyes again. Sherlock was somewhere between broken and giving into every dark though that had ever crossed his mind. Going out and building back Moriarty’s empire and running it without the distraction of someone like himself. After all, he’d tricked the only competition into death.

John watched him with a renewed thrill of fear. He kept it hidden, pausing for a moment before nodding at Sherlock, forcing himself to believe it would be okay, that this was just Sherlock on the edge, not an entirely new man in his friend’s body. 

“Yeah, yeah of course,” he breathed, watching him closely. 

Sherlock toed off his shoes before he curled onto the sofa, close enough for John to touch, but far enough away to not be an immediate threat, not with how he was sitting. He was leaned against the arm, feet tucked up beside him, sock clad toes almost, but not quite, touching John’s thigh.

He was silent as he tucked his face against the back of the couch, exposing himself to the room vulnerably. He hooked his arm around himself, hand splayed across his own hip as he sat there.

“Did you mean it?” John whispered, watching him from the distance Sherlock had allowed. 

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John, “Mean what?” There were a million things John could be referring to from their wild exchange.

He nearly looked away, his heart rolling in his chest. Sherlock had touched the rawest nerve of them all, and he had to know if he’d truly believed what he’d said, or if it was simply a cruel jab for effect. He held his eye, determined to catch every part of his expression as he clarified. 

“You asked if they’d broken Captain Watson. Did you mean it? Is that how you see me?”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment as if bewildered that out of everything he’d said and done to John, that was the most important before he realized that _of course it was_. His expression softened, “God no, you’re the strongest man I know. I couldn’t have survived what you did. Not when I thought all was lost at home... Which I’m going to assume is how you felt in part since you went flouncing off to the sandbox again. Christ John... I did it to _make_ you hit me. To provoke you into action. I am sorry it cut deeper than that.”

Sherlock shook his head, “You- you’re the only reason I survived half of the things I did. Your strength and knowing you’d got out of tougher scrapes is what made me go on. It’s what made me haul my bleeding arse out of the jungle after I was shot.”

He stared at him, “Not broken, not by a long shot. Just a little dinged up.”

John held his jaw tight and gave a small nod that he’d heard him, finally allowing himself to look away. He’d yet to relax his posture, yet to drop his defenses. Sherlock had coiled him up tight and dropped him hard into the lap of fear, twisting John’s understanding of his relative safety. 

“That’s not why I hit you,” John whispered, dragging a hand over his face, shaking his head. His stomach turned and he slowly pushed himself up, starting to move back to his room, limping hard now that the adrenalin had left him. 

Sherlock buried his face back in the sofa, barely able to gather the strength to drag the blanket off the back of it and onto himself before sleep reached up and yanked him under. Everything that had happened stopping just short of making him pass out.

John made it to the lav, closing the door behind him, shutting off the light. He moved by feel to the shower and turned it on before sinking down to the lid of the toilet, gooseflesh ripping uncomfortably across his body in odd, uncoordinated swaths. A symptom of stress in times he’d lock it down and try and rise above. His mind felt calm and steady as his body reminded him of the delusion. He let his face fall into his hands and breathed slowly, shivering occasionally. 

Finally the heat of the shower whispered along his face in the form of warm steam, pulling him back to action. He peeled out of his clothes, pulling at the heavy velcro of his boot, hissing as his swollen leg slid free of the somewhat damp material. He stood slowly, keeping his weight off his foot, that calve feeling like a twig compared to the other side of his body. 

He stepped into the spray and slowly folded to the ground, settling under the heated water in the pitch dark. It thundered against the back of his skull, drowning out Sherlock’s...or rather, the _Not Sherlock_ of Sherlock, words. He’d been safe here. This had been his home. His home, and Sherlock had _fucking terrified him_ inside of it. He had no idea what to trust any longer. Sherlock had tossed himself from Bart’s and the world redesigned itself. His stomach heaved suddenly, though he avoided sicking up. He tipped his head to the back of the wall, leaning into the tile, breathing slowly.

… _definitely angry enough to hit back. Couldn’t, not looking at that eye still almost swollen shut_...at least there had been that. Some sort of barrier, some wall that still existed, keeping John protected from whatever it was that lurked in the darker corners of Sherlock’s mind.

He felt like a wandering ghost; the shadow of a man meant to have left this world long ago, nowhere to stop, nowhere to head. He simply _was_ , and dear god did that hurt. He wrapped his arms tight around his chest, realizing with a start that he’d not removed the bindings. He huffed an empty, nearly hysterical laugh before settling in on himself, sleep tugging hard at him as he wished he’d been wise enough to swallow a painkiller before sagging to the shower floor. 

Sherlock muttered in his sleep as dreams overtook him. The memory of his time in the basement, locked in with some of Moran’s guards coming to him. He’d nearly failed that time. 

_Sherlock was facing off against three of Moran’s brutes, his posture alert, reactive. One of them swung, narrowly missing as Sherlock ducked under and hooked a leg back, yanking a foot out from under the man, his own forward motion sending him head first into the wall. He’d got lucky with that one. The other two advancing on hims wouldn’t be that easy…_

Sherlock came awake with a start, the memory of the punches jolting him awake as he flailed and fell off the couch with a resounding crash, pulling half the cushions off on top of himself.

He scrambled to his feet, panting as he looked around the flat, chest heaving. John was gone? Where was John!? Sherlock scrambled over the coffee table, not bothering with going around it and burst into his old room. “John!?” Sherlock’s voice was cracked, panicked nearly.

John startled hard, coming awake to freezing water and darkness, his mind grinding to a halt as he racked his brain for where he was. His name came panicked from the other side of the lav door and he called out right back, “Sherlock!” Still confused.

 

Sherlock was across the room to the door and tried to open it. His terror only increased when he found it locked, “John!?” He rattled the door, tears already streaking down his face, “P-please? Are you okay?

John was staggering to his feet, groping for a towel in the darkness as he shifted and realized he was without his boot. He twisted the towel around his hips, his sodden bandages slipping down his chest as he shoved his weight to the wall and flicked the lock open, eyes wide and panicked. He flung open the door and blinked at Sherlock, trying to puzzle together what the hell was going on when he realized the man was _crying_. 

Sherlock’s chest stuttered as he took in the sight of John, relief flooding through him. His breathing finally just sunk him to the floor as he fought desperately to get enough air, only managing to make himself light headed as he finally succumbed to the hyperventilation he’d subjected himself to. He was trying to talk even as his head swam, “Gone, just gone, woke up gone.”

He couldn’t even think straight and he just looked up at John, full out panicked but too dizzy to do anything but sit there.

John swore and eased himself down next to Sherlock, dripping all over him as he reached out and slipped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him forward. “Come on, Sherlock, like this, that’s it, slow down,” he instructed as he bent Sherlock nearly in half with a hand at the back of his neck, forcing him to breathe slower in the more restrictive position. “Slow down, with me, okay? Breathe with me.”

He began audibly pacing Sherlock, wincing as his ribs caught on the deeper inhalations, trying to get Sherlock to listen to him.

Sherlock breathed with John, slowly calming down as the dizziness subsided. He whimpered slightly, “Sorry, so sorry. I woke up, Jesus, Moran’s goons. Nearly... You were gone. I thought I’d failed. Forgot where you were.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, “I’m sorry. Christ, let me help you to the bed or... wherever you want to go? I didn’t mean to disturb you...” Sherlock was suddenly feeling very small and stupid.

John stared at him, watching his shifting disposition that seemed to physically shrink him. He slid trembling fingers along Sherlock’s cheeks and leaned in slowly, watching his expression, keeping eye contact until their lips brushed together and he let his eyes close. 

He would do _anything_ to keep that small sort of fear away from Sherlock. He could not stand to see him so...lost and wavering. He kept close, keeping the kiss warm and gentle, allowing Sherlock the ability to pull away from him. 

Sherlock’s eyes closed and his arms went around John. He pulled him close, gently, a whimper of relief against the kiss. One hand gently threaded in the back of John’s short hair, urging the kiss deeper, tongue teasing John’s lower lip before he nibbled lightly on it. He let out a soft sigh, nerves almost instantly soothed  
John lingered in the kiss a while longer, not fully engaged, but not pulling away, either. He pressed closer to Sherlock despite himself, cold and aching, wanting Sherlock desperately but unable and unwilling to allow himself that trust just yet. He drew back slowly, tipping his face down to Sherlock’s neck. “I’m sorry you were frightened,” he murmured, running his thumb along Sherlock’s collar bone.

Sherlock sighed softly, “I’m okay, I’ll be okay... You need off this floor, you’re freezing.” He tilted his head to John’s for just a moment before gently climbing to his feet. He took in a deep breath and held out his hands, “Come on, on your feet, watch the broken one though. Carry you to the bed? I’ll bring your boot. Christ John, the wrappings this time? Have we got any under the sink still?” Sherlock’s voice was wavering, trying desperately to cling to some sort of normality. He’d no idea how late his meds were at this point.

John took Sherlock’s hands but shook his head at the offer to be carried. He looked down, starting in on the bindings as he leaned against the wall. The damned shower was still running and his teeth were starting to chatter, the flat notoriously drafty. 

“It’s fine, I...tomorrow, I’ll get more tomorrow I’m okay. What time is it?” He asked as he dropped the wet things to the ground, not really caring about the mess, hanging onto the edge of the towel as he made his way carefully to the bed, only using his bad foot for balance, mostly hopping. 

Sherlock went into the lav and turned off the taps. He rubbed his head and picked up the wet bindings and tossed them in the floor of the shower. He tossed down a towel and slowly wiped up the water before tossing the towel in the bottom of the shower too.

“Need anything? I-I’ll be right back. If you want me to stay that is.”

He was wary, still on edge from everything earlier before suddenly blurting out, “Why _did_ you hit me?”

John had just finished tugging on his trousers when Sherlock turned and suddenly drew the events of earlier sharply back to focus. He reached behind him with shaking fingers and grabbed at the blanket, tucking it over his shoulders. 

John considered lying, for a few moments, closing his eyes and milling over his answer. He did not look at Sherlock as he quietly answered. 

“You looked like...you’d stripped off your shirt to not bloody it and you were looking at me as though...I took the swing because I thought it might be my only chance to protect myself. You were scaring the life out of me.”

Sherlock nodded at that. “Need anything for the night, before I go to bed?” His jaw clenched slightly after he asked. Fighting not to simply run from the room. They were too broken for this. Sherlock had inflicted too much damage.

John set his jaw and forced himself to press on. “Would you have, Sherlock? If I made you angry enough? Would you have?”

He had to know the answer before the seed of fear Sherlock had planted enjoyed time to grow and take root. 

Sherlock looked at John and tilted his head slightly, “Punched you? I’ve done that before... You weren’t hurt then though.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, “I would never seriously harm you. Not now, not ever. Can I see myself hitting you back under different circumstances. I don’t know. Maybe. Likely not though. I went through hell to keep you safe. I’m not going to go and mess that all up by harming you myself.”

John bit his lip and looked away. He’d not been talking about Sherlock simply striking him, but he’d answered the question all the same. His fear had been overreaction to a set of scenarios that left him thinking he was in danger of far, far more than a simple fist to the jaw.

His eyes fell to the clock and he hissed. “You need your meds, Sherlock,” he whispered, reaching for the box. His hands were shaking too much to do anything other than pass it over to Sherlock before moving his attention to his own painkillers. “I- that is if you- I’d- please stay. Unless you’d rather not. But...please...do,” he added, feeling foolish and miserable. 

Sherlock took the box and nodded. “I’ll be back... Will you be okay for a few moments?” He disappeared out the door with the box when John nodded and threw it on the table before sprinting up the stairs, hauling out his favorite pyjamas and slipping into them. He thundered back down them in a rush, stopping long enough to grab a glass of water and fishing out the pills he needed. He camed back in, holding out the water for John first.

He held out his other hand, displaying the pills so John would know he wasn’t taking more than needed. His demeanor back to subdued Sherlock, but still Sherlock. He chewed on his lip before suddenly blurting out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just... I _needed_ you to hit me. I couldn’t take the rest of it. I’m so angry with you, so angry with me. Angry at the world. This has been hell, absolutely and utterly hell. I meant to make you angry with me, not frighten you out of your wits.”

He was trembling when he was through, unsure of what else to say. He’d been so angry though, so angry he’d frightened himself. If it had been anyone else in front of him other than John, he’d likely be well on his way to jail for attempted murder. John though, never John.  
John listened to him carefully, taking in the details even as his emotions screamed for attention. “Please sit down, Sherlock, you look about to fall,” he said gently, patting the bed beside him. He managed himself better up in the bed, exceedingly careful with his foot, propping back against the pillows and shoving deep into the blankets, loathing how harshly cold and emotion and physical fucking pain was making him shiver. 

“I was just...I’ve been.. _seeing_ things and hearing...I get.. _got_ lost when you were away and I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought-” he shook his head and cleared his throat, “I wish I could understand why you are so angry with me. I don’t understand what I’ve done to you to make you hate me this much.”

Sherlock recoiled at the word hate. “I don’t hate you. Jesus, John. I could never hate you. You could beat me within an inch of my life, you could have thrown me from St. Bart’s yourself, hell you could throw me out of the flat right now and I could never hate you.”

He sat by John and popped his own pills just to get everything out of his damn hands and set the glass on the bedside table. “Have you taken your meds?”

John still had the bottle clutched in his fist under the covers. He shook his head and looked over at Sherlock, exhausted and wrung out. 

“I can’t steady my damn hands,” he whispered, pulling his arm out of the blankets and holding out the bottle. 

Sherlock took the bottle gently, opening it and shaking two out into John’s hands before reaching over him and snatching the bottle of valium off the other table and shaking one out of it, “Don’t argue... please. Just. Take it as well, I’ve tap danced on your nerves.”

He held the glass up, plucking the straw from the other one so John didn’t have to hold it. He chewed on his lip, hoping John wasn’t going to argue, he didn’t have the strength for it.

John did as Sherlock asked, taking the lot of them and pressing back down into the blankets. He stared at Sherlock for a while, running their exchange over in his mind again and again. After a bit of silence he inhaled sharply, “Please just be patient with me. I think I can...I don’t know...I can fix whatever the hell is wrong with my head just _please_ ,” he whispered desperately. 

He swallowed and took a slower breath, trying to calm back down, “I know this isn’t what you wanted from me. I know, I’m just...I’m honestly _trying_ I am and...”

He shook his head and pressed down into the bedding, curling down tight into the blankets, suddenly on the verge of frustrated tears. 

Sherlock was around to his own side of the bed and under the covers with John as swiftly as possible. “No, John, you misunderstand. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just, I’ve never felt like this and my head’s all twisted up from the man I was for eighteen months, and then stringing myself out, and I just. I just want you, in any way that you are. I love you, I’m sorry.”

He gently snuggled John to him, wrapping up around him and nuzzling his face to John’s shoulder.

John melted against him, shuddering at the suddenly warmth. He slid a hand around Sherlock’s back and buried his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, moving however he could manage to bring them closer together. 

“Just don’t...don’t look at me like that again, okay? Please.”

He shifted with a hiss and a groan as he shifted his body, trying to tuck in lower next to Sherlock, dragging the blankets up as high as he could manage. 

Sherlock helped him gently, til they were snuggled down under the covers, blankets nearly over their heads. He pressed a brief kiss to John’s forehead. “I... John, I’ve looked at you a lot of ways. I can’t not do it if I don’t know which one it is. The living room? All of that?”

He was wrapped up around John as much as was possible, just clinging to him gently. He nuzzled his face to John’s temple and closed his eyes.

“No not the living room. I- like you...it’s...it’s okay, I’m- it’s okay.”

He shivered as the slow bleed of calm fanned out from his gut, the medication finally taking effect, seeping into the deep aches and sharp points. He nearly sobbed with relief, whimpering as he pressed in closer to Sherlock, gritting his teeth. 

Sherlock was confused but dropped the subject for now. He’d attempt to understand later. He just pressed close to John, holding him as tightly as he could without hurting him. His voice was soft, “It’s ok, I’ve got you. We’re going to be ok.”

John fell into a deep sleep nearly instantly, sagging against Sherlock as he whispered promises John was happy to take at face value, clinging to him even in slumber. He was exhausted and the medication dragged him out, the most mercy he’d had all night. 

 

Sherlock sighed softly, sleep taking longer to claim him this time, frightened of the nightmares he might have. He finally let it take him and snuggled his face back close to John’s from where he’d been watching him, letting the world fade around him. For once, dreams didn’t threaten the peace of his slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your wonderful feedback, it's always motivating.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all hits the fan. Serious flashbacks and violence, threat of suicide.

“ _Breathe, just breathe, I’ve got you. Hang on. Don’t look,” desperate gasps and bloodied hands grabbing at him, blood-choked pleas slipping between the tattered cacophony of rounds, a few zipping dangerously close. Didn’t matter. White wrappings stained rust-red before touching wounds, shaking hands and orange dust-kicked skies._

A sudden thud before a pause that shattered the air, white hot –nothing- before the screaming tone and lurch; ground and sky spin, chasing one another as he’s thrown, impacting hard and it all goes quiet.

John’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. A body was over him, his hearing muffled, chest aching. He held still, a sharp, spiking pain holding steady behind his swollen eye. Carefully he extracted himself, holding a hand to the man’s mouth, noting that he was breathing. He swept his eyes from left to right, finding his entire field of vision orange-red and distorted. He slipped off the bed, not entirely realizing he’d been _on_ a bed, backing away until he put pressure on his foot and pain lanced hard up his spine. His vision snapped off.

_Nimble fingers calmly trailing down rows of buttons. “Don’t want to stain it,” the voice whispered, wrapping around his heart and stopping it just before a shot was fired and he fell to the ground, twisting. “He’s alive, John,” Mycroft said above him, kneeling over him in his expensive suit, openly bored as he tossed a clean handkerchief at him. “You’re bleeding, clean yourself up.”_

He bit down hard on his lip, hands shaking as he reached out and touched his leg, fingers coming away wet. His heart slammed into overdrive and he crawled backwards, hitting his pack. Instinctively he reached inside, whimpering with relief as his fingers curled around the handle of his weapon. He pulled it out and found the clip, carefully loading it as silently as he could manage, desperately trying to _think_.

Boot. He had a boot. If he could just get to it, and his crutches…

“State your name,” hot breath in Pashto tones, harsh fingers at his jaw, harsh lights in his face, barrel digging into his temple, red light blinking as he was recorded.

His knees were wet from crawling across the lav floor, hands shaking terribly as he pulled on the boot, both aware of where he was, and completely lost, a constant undertone of –wrong- running like ticker-tape across his mind.

“ _I know it hurts, grab onto me. Breathe. One day at a time, kid, come on, here’s water,” John babbled to the youth in his lap, raging with fever, most of his leg missing below the knee. He faded in and out of lucidity. The other men had stopped speaking to the kid entirely, nearly ready to choke the life out of him when he screamed. His pain agitating to already raw nerves. And then their captors would come and select their film subject. They adored the kid, he made for very special effects. John grit his teeth and waved them off the kid today. He couldn’t take it, they’d kill him if they took him. Better to let him die here where he lay than strapped to a chair in agony. A harsh hand around John’s throat and loud screaming preceded the strike and the lights faded to black yet again._

John was beyond panic at this point. Hobbling through the sitting room, headed for his crutches, pistol in hand; he slipped on a single house shoe over his good foot and grabbed the aluminum poles, sighing with relief. He knew the flat, knew he was in Baker Street, and yet as dreams were wont to do, he was _also_ in the caves, desperatly needing to escape. 

The light here was a dusty orange as well, and _that_ shirt hung over the table. He looked down, the ground churning like flowing water, distorted and stretching, blood pooling over his toes.

“You’ve cracked, John. You’ve cracked,” he whispered to himself, a desperate, brittle laugh at the end. He knew where the exit was, at the very least, could get there. He made it out onto the landing before pain arced hard across his head, scattering his vision away on golden flashes. He grit his teeth and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye as a woman’s voice floated over the roar of his heartbeat.

“John?”

He leveled the weapon in the direction of the sound and hissed back at her, “La tilmisni!*” blinking rapidly to restore his vision. He managed to make out her expression in the orange glow; pale and terrified as she scrambled back down the stairs. He grit his teeth and tipped his head back against the wall, his head was on _fire_. It was so acute, he reached up and slid his fingers over his skull, expecting to find some blade or projectile lodged there.

“ _Did they break the great Captain John Watson?” dark, rich tones asked as a boot came down for what felt the hundredth time, searing pain ripping down his ribcage. The sound of his own brittle laughter filled the room before another fist flew, stuttering the sound. He was going to die soon, it would be over in minutes this time, surely._

He was at the base of the stairs now, breath shattering in and out of his brittle lungs. Each breath was like swallowing razors. He realized with a start that he was on his back, flashing lights coming through the windows. He must have fallen and knocked himself out at some point in his attempt to get down the stairs. He scrambled back up, crying out sharply, realizing his pistol was just out of arm’s reach. He went for it, awkwardly managing it with his crutches as he heard someone approaching the other side of the door. He shoved himself to the corner just at the hinge, noticing the little woman from earlier poking her head around the corner.

The door swung open and John’s heart dropped as he reached out over his crutch, grabbing the back of the entering man’s collar and shoving the barrel to the base of his neck. The woman screamed as John shouted his directions in broken Pashto, thumbing off the safety as a thick stream of blood trickled from his own nose.

Greg froze, hands up as he shook his head slightly at Mrs. Hudson. His voice was calm as he spoke softly, “John, it’s Greg... you’re in London, Baker Street.” He was quiet, subdued. He took a deep breath, “It’s all okay, I promise. You’re in no danger here.”

Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene before jerking back out of sight. He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. He finally called out, “John... that’s Lestrade you have there.” He dared a peek around the door frame, gazing down at the scene below him again. “John?”

John’s head was _splitting_. The man in his hands was not following instruction, though he was still, at the very least. They’d failed to properly clear the house, where the fuck was the rest of his team? 

Did he have a team here? 

He adjusted his grip and instructed his target to his knees in Pashto once again, ignoring the others as neither of them were brandishing weapons or making moves on him. His back pressed harder against the wall in his dizziness, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, tasting blood. He was bleeding. Why the fuck was he bleeding? 

His sense of urgency kicked up as he realized he was wounded and he shook the man hard, screaming his instructions for the man to take a knee, wanting nothing more than to move out of the damned house. 

“For God’s sake, to your knees Greg. I’ve no idea what he thinks is going on, but I don’t think he even knows any of us don’t speak Pashto, well I do, obviously... Just, for God’s sake hit your knees.” Sherlock snapped. His jaw clenched before he spoke softly to John in Pashto, “Don’t hurt him, we’re friendly.”

Greg went to his knees, shaking as he looked up at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. Mrs. Hudson had retreated to her bedroom. Sherlock’s movements were slow, arms raised slightly, palms facing John. He came down a step and watched, stilling to judge the reaction.

He spoke softly again, Pashto somehow less guttural and harsh on his tongue, “John, you have Lestrade in front of you, a gun to his neck, please, don’t do this.”

John bristled, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end as he pulled the weapon away from the man on his knees and leveled it at the dark man on the stairs. The one who suddenly spoke Pashto with no accent. 

“Stop,” he bit out in English, tugging up hard on his captive’s collar, nearly knocking himself to the floor as he compromised his own balance. 

He hissed in Pashto to the man at his front to remove his weapon, the one on brazen display at his hip. The only men in Afghanistan so blatant with their firearms were with a pack. John was trapped and had no idea where the rest of his unit was. Friendly his ass. Keeping his weapon sighted on the stairs, he shook the man and hissed again with urgency, manipulating them so that his captive was bodily between he and the Pashto speaker. 

Darkness was fanning in at the edges of his vision and his heart rolled. He _could not_ black out here. 

“John, he doesn’t speak Pashto. Greg, lose the pistol, slowly. Carefully.” He switched to Pashto, “He doesn’t speak Pashto, he’s just here to check on us... He speaks English like you. He’ll cooperate much better if you speak to him in a language he understands.” 

Greg scrambled unevenly to his feet as John yanked on him. He took the pistol from his hip, fingers well away from the trigger. He held it up for John. “John, you need help, come on... let’s take you to the hospital, yeah?” Greg said softly as he stood there. His eyes were on Sherlock, terror there, but overriding it was the concern for their mutual friend. “You tell Molly I love her.”

“Shut up Greg, he’s not going to shoot you.” Sherlock was _terrified_ John would do just that. He rubbed a hand slowly through his hair before sitting down on the top step. “John Watson, please put that damn pistol down.” The words were English, desperate. 

Still holding the weapon to the man seated on the stairs, he dropped cold instructions in English. “Drop the clip, clear the chamber, holster it,” without taking his hand from the back of his collar. 

His eyes narrowed at the man on the stairs. He knew him. He did. he was sure of it. Whatever he’d said _sounded_ like English but meant nothing at all. 

_Don’t want to stain it_

He hissed. “The _shirt,_ ” he mumbled, placing the man’s voice to the threatening conversation. Only he’d recalled that man shooting him, and this man was unarmed and placid. He ticked his head to the side, gasping at the pain of it, watching as clip and single round clattered to the floor. 

“Move,” he hissed, pushing his captive to the door, barrel sighted on the dark man on the stairs. 

Greg moved easily, a slight shake of the head to Sherlock. Don’t try anything. Greg stepped outside slowly, letting John guide him how he wanted to go. The lights atop his police car were flashing and he was so glad he hadn’t brought anyone else along. Mrs. Hudson had called him directly.

Sherlock watched John carefully, “Be careful, John, please don’t do anything we’ll all regret.” 

As soon as they were clear, John pressed the barrel to his captive’s temple, directing him to the waiting car. For a wild moment, John considered driving. His footing was awkward and uneven, the ground liquid beneath his feet. Had he been drugged?

“I’ll kill you if you try anything,” he said sharply, pushing Greg in through the passenger seat, making him crawl awkwardly to the driver’s side. John fell in after him, crutches clattered to his lap. He slammed the door and shouted for him to go, just go. 

He was fucking _freezing_ , shirtless and in thin cotton night pants. What the hell? Where was his tactical gear?

He kept the pistol tucked against the driver’s ribs and dashed a hand across his face, scowling at the blood. How had he come to be bleeding? 

“North, g-go north,” he instructed, utterly unsure of where the fuck to go from here. 

“Alright, John, Alright... we’ll head north.” Greg put the car in drive and sighed softly as he turned at the next cross street. He finally had them heading north after a few moments. “Do you recognize me? At all? Is my voice not familiar to you?” Greg stole a glance at John out of the corner of his eye. Jesus, the man looked rough. They should have dragged him back to the hospital after Sherlock was found and kept the both of them there.

Meanwhile Sherlock had flown upstairs to his room and dressed, already on the phone with Mycroft. “You keep tabs on them, let me know where they’re headed.” He listened as he slid on his jacket. “I don’t care Mycroft, you keep the rest of the force away from him. They’ll _shoot_ him, he’s a gun to the Detective Inspector’s head.” He finally hung up the phone as he dashed downstairs. “Mrs. Hudson! Off to save Greg and John!”

John ignored him, his mind racing. He wasn’t with a unit. He wasn’t in Afghanistan. He was in London but... it was _wrong._

Had he cracked apart in the caves and lost himself? Was this simply a hallucination? 

“You know me?” He rasped, holding the weapon tight against the man’s ribs, watching out the window for... whatever the hell it was he was watching for. He had to switch vehicles and he was going to have to do it fast. There were cabs, but he doubted very much one would pick him up shirtless and bleeding. 

He swore as the earth pitched hard and his hand shot out, gripping the dash to steady himself. His stomach lurched and he was going to vomit, “Pull over, right up there,” he gasped, gesturing to a dugout construction lot. They’d cleared the thickest portions of London, now on the more sparse, industrial side. 

He waited until the car rolled over the dirt, coming to a stop before pushing open the door and twisting to the side, vomiting hard enough to see stars, nearly blacking out. His head was making him so fucking ill, god it hurt. 

“Don’t move,” he warned between sicking up, feeling himself wash pale and clammy, shaking violently. It finally subsided and he dragged a hand down his face, realizing that his chest was now liberally streaked with the blood from his nose, which had started flowing anew with the shift in his blood pressure. 

Greg’s radio kicked up with chatter and John dropped his eyes to it before looking to him, eyes narrowed as he listened carefully. 

“Police scanner,” he mumbled, blinking slowly as he took in what was being said, blinking slowly, orange fading down to grey as he turned his focus on...

“Oh Christ,” he gasped, _finally_ seeing Greg. “Oh...Jesus,” he all but fell out of the car in retreat, holding tight to the weapon, stumbling away as much as he could manage, his back finally hitting a heavy bit of machinery. 

Greg let out a sigh, “John, just, it’s okay... You need a hospital. Okay?” Greg slid out of the driver’s seat and came around the car, hands held up. “Can I have the gun?” He approached slowly, ready to stop at any moment.

\---

Sherlock listened to his brother on the phone and shouted something at the cabbie. They turned ahead and Sherlock could see the crane looming ahead.  


\---

“It’s okay John, we just need to get you to a doctor... please.” Greg watched him carefully.

“Don’t,” John gasped, pressing back, sliding along the main body of the crane behind him, the metal freezing at his back, “For Christ’s sake don’t,” he begged, putting more space between he and Greg -fucking Greg, whom he’d nearly shot dead in front of Mrs. Hudson- until he was pinned in. Greg was moving towards him and there was no way to keep him at bay other than to fucking shoot him, and he wasn’t about to do that. 

John cried out, his face falling as tears dripped off his chin. What the hell had _happened_ to him? 

“Don’t, Greg, please just _go,_ ” he pleaded, blinking down at his hands before turning the gun on himself, holding it to his temple. “I..I’m so _sorry_ Greg, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you,” he tried to explain himself to his friend, shaking so hard his voice was hardly understandable, “I don’t know what’s happening to me!” He lamented, thumbing back the hammer, pressing the barrel harder to his own excruciating head.

Greg froze holding up his hands as he heard a car approach. He was backing away as Sherlock’s voice sounded, “Greg?” Sherlock came around the car and froze. 

“John...” the name was torn from Sherlock’s throat in a mix of horror and fear. He took a step forward. “ _Please_. He was trembling as he slowly held out a hand, “John, _don’t._ I can’t...” His voice was cracking. “Just stop this... stop it right now.”

John’s eyes narrowed for a moment, blinking away tears, struggling to identify this man. He shook his head slowly, holding the weapon tight, breathing slowly. 

“Go away,” he breathed, disliking how he was being advanced on, knowing he should know who this was, furious that he didn’t. He’d been in the house...Baker Street, with Mrs. Hudson...landlady...and he’d owned the shirt. He set off a series of emotive responses that nearly took John to his knees, scaring him, setting him even further off balance. 

Pain lanced across his head and he gasped at the force of it, nearly sicking up again. “Please...please just _go._ I don’t want to hurt anyone else, I’m so sorry, I’d not intended... please leave me.”

Sherlock looked terrified. He sank down to his knees where he stood, “John... It’s _me_. It’s _Sherlock._ Don’t shut me out now. Please... Greg, get a fucking ambulance here, now. Back off, out of sight.” Sherlock was quiet, authoritative and Greg retreated, pulling out his phone to contact Mycroft. Better to have someone come from him than public. He was trying to keep this out of official channels.

Sherlock stared at John, “Please.” He was silent long moments before the words bubbled out desperately. “I love you. Damn it, _I love you_. Don’t do this. Please don’t do this...”

Greg spoke in hushed tones to Mycroft over the phone, the elder Holmes informing an ambulance was coming, running silent.

“I don’t...I don’t know what’s...” John began, staring down at the man on his knees as color fizzled at the edges of his otherwise grey vision. His own words sounded far, far away, distorted. 

“You know who I am,” he sputtered in dragging Pashto, swaying where he stood, his grip on the weapon wavering as something floating and electric sizzled up his legs. He blinked slowly, cracking a half-smile, teeth pink with blood, shaking his head. 

“This isn’t happening,” words still laced in Pashto, English cracking through. He closed his eyes as his chest locked up on him and the pistol dropped from his hands, his body sending him crashing to his knees as the electrical storm took over his brain, thrashing him against the freezing ground. 

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and crossed the distance before he even knew how he’d got there. He was screaming for Greg even as he tried to protect John from the freezing ground and gravel as much as he could. As soon as the seizure stopped Sherlock had him in his arms. Greg helping him to his feet. Greg merely grabbed John’s pistol and shoved it into the holster on his hip for a moment. He’d stow it in the car later.

“No time to wait on the ambulance, get the damn car open and get us to St. Barts. _now._ Greg was rushing ahead of them, opening the back door so that Sherlock could maneuver into the back seat with John. He slid them in with some difficulty, keeping John close to him, wary of another seizure. Greg slammed the door and was in the driver’s seat almost immediately. He was on the radio shouting out that he was transporting to St. Bart’s and to get things the hell out of his way. At least now he was just transporting a very sick man.

Sherlock was wiping at the blood on John’s face with a linen handkerchief, whispering to him that it was going to be okay. Sherlock laid a kiss to John’s forehead and briefly met Greg’s eyes in the rearview. Greg was stunned by what he saw in Sherlock’s eyes. His voice was hoarse as he spoke, “He’ll be okay Sherlock... It’s John, he’s strong.” He stepped harder on the gas though as Sherlock’s breathing hitched as he clung to John.

John’s eyes snapped open, blinking up at the fringe of hair above him, darting from dark curls to iron bars. John’s stomach dropped and he grit his teeth, pushing away hard at whatever pinned him. After all of that, he’d been captured anyhow. They were taking him _back_.

“Please!” he shouted, heart fluttering wildly. He was in something small, moving, and he didn’t _want_ to be moving. He thrashed out, twisting desperately, certain he was about to die, nothing at all in his mind other than _escape._

Sherlock caught several weak knocks to the face as John flailed, already bruised chin screaming in pain. Greg started slowing and Sherlock barked, “Drive!” He shrunk himself against the door, shoving John lightly to a sitting position, “John! Damn it...”

He reached out and snared John’s wrists. He held them tightly but not painfully. He kept John at arm’s length mostly trying to keep him from hurting himself as they screamed towards St. Bart’s. “John, _please_ listen to me. You’re going to be okay, we’re taking you to hospital.”

He winced as he watched John’s panic, the terror. He glanced out the window, relieved at seeing how close they were. “Just hold on... Hold on for me.”

His thoughts were coming in clipped, scattered disarray, focus narrowed to his wrists as he cried out. “I don’t know anything!” he _screamed_ in Pashto, struggling with his best efforts and failing miserably. “I am a physician, I _heal_ I’m a _healer_ , not again, please not again!”

John couldn’t get enough air, throat tight and eyes stinging. He went still as he blinked at the man across from him, so very far away. It was _Sherlock_ they had _Sherlock_. 

His heart dropped and he started shouting at him, “Run, what are you doing run! Run! Sherlock _please run_ I’m down, I can’t save you,” he begged, tears rolling down his cheeks, not connecting that it was Sherlock’s hands around his wrists, London fading in and out around him, his stomach rolling. He stared in horror as the color seemed to slide away from Sherlock’s face, down the walls of the car, dripping off the ceiling. 

He realized with a start that he’d been screaming, unaware of himself, desperate to get Sherlock away from whatever the hell this was. “Please go, please Sherlock go! Run!” he begged, nose dripping again, feeling the roar of unconsciousness charging up on him as his strength flagged and he slowly sank into the seat, losing focus. 

Sherlock was gathering him into his arms even as they arrived at St. Bart’s. The door was wrenched open and they near dragged the mostly unconscious John from his arms. Sherlock was already screaming at them as Greg slammed the door on him, effectively locking him in the back as he slid back into the driver’s seat. Sherlock attacked the barrier between them. “Are you fucking _mad_!?” he hissed as he tried to get to Greg.

“Shut up, sit down, I’m moving the car and we’re giving them enough time to actually try and figure out what to start with, you idiot. I was telling them what happened as you were trying to keep him in your arms. Christ.” Greg was snapping as he pulled into a reserved space and put it in park, “Are you going to behave if I let you out of the damn car?”

Sherlock stilled and nodded. Greg got out of the car with a sigh and opened Sherlock’s door, watching as Sherlock unfolded his frame from the car. He straightened his bloodied clothes and started for the door. Greg rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him, dashing to catch up with Sherlock’s long strides.

Sherlock strode into the lobby and the receptionist visibly winced. Greg held a hand up to Sherlock’s chest and stopped him, speaking softly to the woman. “John Watson... When can we go back?”

She darted her eyes between the two of them and held up a finger as she dialed the the trauma bay.

John had fought for his life against the staff, screaming down the ceiling as he was separated from Sherlock, confused and in pain. He’d blacked out under fluorescent lights, Sherlock’s name on his lips. 

It was another hour before his primary physician walked into the family waiting room, hands clean though his coat was smudged in various places. He knew of Sherlock Holmes, had been warned in advance. He found the man, and DI Lestrade, a man he was already familiar with, alone. He couldn’t imagine that had been by accident. 

“Mr. Holmes,” he called out to the pacing man, holding out his hand, “Dr. Walthers. I’m John Watson’s primary attending.”

Sherlock took in the man in his rapid fire way, nerves screaming at him. He’d been too long without medication and this had done nothing to help. He took a breath and shook the man’s hand after a moment too long to be considered polite. “Do say hello to your mistress for me... Your secretary... no she’s not smart enough. Your nurse.” He withdrew his hand, in no mood for pleasantries, “Where is he? What is wrong? And for the last, when can I see him?” 

Greg had a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock hadn’t even realized he had his fist balled up at his side. Greg sighed softly, “Sherlock.” it was a warning. “Dr. Walthers, what can you tell us?” Sherlock huffed as he snapped, “Other than the fact that that he’s leaking cerebrospinal fluid in the blood that was pouring from his nose off and on.” He was strung entirely too tightly. The fist at his side twitched and Greg’s grip tightened. “Easy, Sherlock.”

“Please, just call me Mark. She’s my wife, John’s Nurse Practitioner, that is. He’s stable at the moment, Mr. Holmes. When he was here last, he checked out AMA before we realized he had severe head trauma. John’s been wandering about with two fractures in his skull and some impressive swelling. Most of what you saw was blood, but there is a small CSF leak as well.”

He swept his eyes over Sherlock and then Greg, letting his words settle for a moment. “Mr. Holmes, I’ve been in contact with your elder brother who informs me you are having quite a go withdrawing from a significant habit. He has requested, and I must say I rather agree with him, that you be admitted. We can ease this for you, help you regain your strength in a much more controlled way. I’m admitting John to Intensive Care to monitor his head injury, he’s had two additional seizures since being here, we were lucky enough to catch one on MRI. “

Greg barely caught Sherlock as he lunged for the doctor, screaming at him that he wasn’t leaving John’s side. Greg was able to trip him up and somehow get the cuffs on him even as he continued screaming. Greg winced and went skidding as Sherlock managed to somehow twist under him and get those impossibly long legs up to kick him off. Greg was going to need a load of therapy after this, he thought idly to himself as medical staff scrambled, the doctor yelling for someone to sedate him and get him in a bed.

Sherlock hadn’t quit screaming at them, cursing and trying to kick and bite anyone who came near him. He was frantic even as he felt the needle in his thigh. A part of his brain lamenting the tiny hole it would leave in the trousers he had on. He kicked slower and slower until he was lying panting glaring up at Greg and the doctor. “You tell Mycroft he’s dead.” was all he managed to get out before his eyes rolled back in his head and he succumbed to the sedative.

They threw him unceremoniously on the stretcher. Greg undid the handcuffs from one hand and placed it on the railing. They adjusted Sherlock before moving on down the hallway and Greg followed along, texting Mycroft:

Sherlock’s promised your death, just so you’re forewarned. -GL

Mark followed along. He wrote up orders for Sherlock after having his nurses gather labs. Cuffs were replaced with medical restraints, and his oldest, burliest, most thick-skinned nurse assigned to watch Sherlock in his room. 

When they had him sorted, Mark put a hand on Greg’s shoulder and led him out of the room, handing him back the metal cuffs, steering him to the physician’s lounge. He sat Greg down and poured him a coffee before joining him on sofa. 

“This is one hell of a day you’ve had,” he said gently, dropping John’s chart on the table in front of them. “I hate to pick at you, but I really would like a first hand account from you regarding Dr. Watson.”

He took up a pen and watched Greg patiently, jotting down notes, asking for clarification or detail in specific places before nodding and folding it all away. 

“I can write you something for nerves. I’d suggest, aggressively, that you take a few days of leave before trying to get back to work. We are keeping Watson sedated for a while, I don’t want him seizing if we can help it. Sherlock may see the same treatment if we can’t keep him calm. Thank you for saving my face back there, bloke looks as though he can pack a good one.”

Greg started laughing. He couldn’t help it. He buried his face in his hands and nearly lost it laughing, gasping for breath before he was able to calm back down. “You don’t want to know where he’s been or what he was doing for the year and a half before he came back and thought John dead... You won’t keep him from trying to get to everyone, you’ll have to keep him sedated. Until you let him to John’s side he’s going to be uncontrollable and a nightmare. I didn’t think the man capable of most feelings until tonight.” Greg’s mind flashed back to the look on Sherlock’s face in the car.

He ran a hand over his short hair. “I’ll take you up on that offer. I think it’s going to be the only way I rest for a couple nights.”

Mark cleared his throat and nodded as he stood. “To be entirely honest, the rehabilitation is a front for Sherlock’s benefit. Mycroft has been...expressly clear regarding the situations his sibling has been in the last year. We are going to take his time here to ensure he’s not picked up anything untoward. We’ve been...informed that he will be volatile. I’d not anticipated such an explosive initial reaction. Much as I’d like to keep him close to John, I’m highly concerned he’ll frighten him.”

He was scribbling on his script pad now, ripping the paper off and handing it to Greg. He pulled his mobile from his hip and sent off a text before sitting down beside Greg once more. “They will run that up to you, have it waiting at the front desk. I’m having a car collect you, I’d rather you not drive off at the moment. Would you like me to call anyone for you?”

“Molly, Christ... Molly Hooper, morgue. She’s on shift.” He looked over at the doctor, “Just know keeping them apart is on you and Mycroft’s heads.” He stood and held out a hand. “Thank you, for everything.”

Mark shook Greg’s hand fondly and told him to wait where he was, there were no other docs on the floor who’d be using the lounge and he did not have any reason to subject himself to curious onlookers. 

He personally went down to the Morgue and collected Molly, assuring the wide-eyed woman that Greg was quite unharmed, collecting his meds on the way back up as he showed her into the room. 

Molly walked in, a bag with pills inside in her hand, confusion on her face. “Greg?” She whispered, moving slowly to him. 

Greg had been pacing, unable to sit down. Relief flooded his face as he saw her and he just pulled her tight against him, pressing his face to the side of her head. “Christ, Molly, everything. It’s just... Jesus.” He was shaking, finally starting to fall apart as he stood there. 

He somehow made it to the sofa and sat down heavily on it. “John and Sherlock both have been admitted. John’s in ICU... Sherlock’s pretty much just being tested for everything under the sun and kept sedated I guess...” his adrenalin crashed and he saw stars, nearly fainting.

He had to put his head between his knees.

Her heart was racing as Greg leaned into her. She held quiet, listening intently as he sank down to the sofa and explained with the barest information the situation. 

She bit her lip as he leaned forward, obviously trying not to pass out. “Greg,” she whispered, sliding her hand up his back, jerking away as her fingers came away damp with blood. “Greg? Are you hurt?” She asked suddenly, reaching her hands over the expanse of his shoulders, trying to find a source. “Greg talk to me, honey, Greg please,” she carried on, sure she was lacking the most important details. 

He took a deep breath and was able to sit up again finally. “Not my blood, John’s. Mrs. Hudson called me tonight, found John clutching his gun in the upper landing to 211B. Scared her. I got there and” he shuddered. “ _Christ_ , Molly he was waiting inside the door. Screaming at me in Pashto, gun to my neck. Sherlock, if he hadn’t translated... Wound up driving... I don’t know. Sherlock caught up somehow. John finally realized who I was right before Sherlock got there. He turned the gun on himself. Didn’t know Sherlock. Jesus... I think the only thing that saved him was him seizing.”

It was drawn out piece by piece as Greg relived the terror. He wiped a hand over his face.

“Sherlock, had to restrain him and they had to sedate him when the doc informed him they were admitting him under Mycroft’s orders to recover. It’s been a hell of a night...”

Molly instinctively wrapped her hand gently around the back of Greg’s neck, as if to protect him retroactively from the threat that dropped ice to her stomach. Tears stung at her eyes and she just leaned against him, gentle fingers along his arm as he spoke, tracing his fingers with her own. 

She exhaled slowly, easing her arms around him. “Let me take you home. We will go home, okay? They will sort them out here, you’ve saved them both, let someone else sort them for now.” She encouraged gently, sweeping cool fingers down the side of his face, narrowly avoiding crying herself. “I love you, I’m _so glad_ you’re alright.”

Greg nodded numbly and pointed to the bag, “Doc send those? I don’t think I can sleep without something... wasn’t even that scared when that kid nailed me with the knife that time. I could have taken dying at some crazy kid’s hand. But John?” He stood shakily. “Home, let’s go home, _please._ ”

He wrapped his fingers around Molly’s as he gave a slight smile to her and tugged her up to him. He kissed her forehead gently, “I love you. I’m okay, it’s going to be okay. Crazy bastards... God love them.”


	13. Chapter 13

When John came awake the first time, he was in blinding, horrific pain. He cried out, begging against the tight pressure at his face, the weights on his chest. Impossibly thirsty and incredibly cold, he blinked up at the white-wash ceiling and found himself alone. 

Mark was paged and came in, speaking slowly and measuring John’s awareness. Finding him lacking, he held John’s hand and assured him he was alright as he nodded to his nurse to put him down again.

Sherlock was an entirely other matter. He’d been kept down via sedation for three days now and every test they’d run from flu to HIV was clean, save his tox screens. He was be mostly weaned from his most recent run at the needle, and they really had no _medical_ justification to keep him under.

He showed the nurse out and checked Sherlock’s restraints a second time before pushing reverse meds, pulling him up out of the chemical sedation, standing directly in his line of sight. He watched as the man swiftly began to wake, breathing deep with lashes fluttering.

Sherlock winced at the light as he fought to focus on something. His eyes finally landed on Mark, and for a moment he considered trying to explode up out of the bed. His eyes narrowed and he tested the bindings in slow, non-threatening movements before he relaxed back against the bed. “What do you want,” he finally asked, voice gravelly from being under, “and how long?”

Mark put his hands up in supplication, “What I want is you out of this bed. You’ve been under three days,” he answered, keeping his voice as calm and placid as possible. He had no desire to stoke the ire of this man. “I’d like to let you out of those, would that be entirely foolish of me?”

“Only if you intend on keeping me from John. What’s his condition?” Sherlock was calm, feeling a bit out of sorts from being woken up chemically. He chewed on his bottom lip for lack of anything to do, restrained as he was. He could not maintain the ruse, concern for John nearly choking him off. He dropped his eyes and his voice, finally asking softly, “Is he okay?” Sherlock was open, vulnerable for the moment. 

Mark moved to the foot of the bed and drew back the blankets, starting in on the buckles at his ankles as he spoke calmly. 

“John has a few bleeds in his brain, Sherlock. He’s stable, and they are all trauma based. I, and both neurologists who are working with him, expect a full recovery. He had a closed head injury from several substantial blows to the back of his head that took their time swelling. We were able to relieve the pressure right after he was brought in.” 

The doctor paused, letting Sherlock absorb that for a moment. “When he was transferred by your brother out of Germany, he simply appeared concussed. There were no visible bleeds and the swelling was non threatening,” he explained, moving to the other foot now that the first was free, “and then he left within the same hour as waking despite medical recommendation. He woke up today, clearly still confused. I put him back under when he started to panic, he doesn’t know where he is. D.I. Lestrade explained everything that happened to me. I can assure you without any doubt that his confusion and memory loss are a direct result of the trauma to his brain, and not simply a psychological condition.”

He moved back to Sherlock’s side, looking down at him. “I’d like to let you sit with him, but I need you to be clear on a few things before I release you, and I need your _word_ that you will not agitate him, Mr. Holmes.”

Insult acred across Sherlock’s face, irritated with the doctor’s presumption, “Why would I agitate him? I simply wish to sit at his side and keep his company, help him when I can.” The admission startled Sherlock when he voiced it and his jaw clenched for a moment before he continued quietly. “I love the man, I just want to make sure he’s alright.” He was silent for a moment before continuing. “Do you think music would help?”

Mark watched him with narrowed eyes for a moment longer, Mycroft’s warning fresh in his ear that Sherlock was a master at manipulation. He seemed genuine and Mark really was wont to believe him, disliking having these men separated. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he answered gently, starting in on the buckle at Sherlock's wrist. “First, I’d like to tell you that your own condition is much improved. I’m keeping you on a low dose of anxiety meds for the next month, at the very least. You’ve tested negative for every pathogen our department can think to run. You need to gain a bit of weight, and sleep some proper hours.”

He looked pointedly at Sherlock before finally releasing his wrist. “As for John. He’s still quite confused, he may not know who you are all the time. I doubt we will see anything as severe as his latest episode, but I need to know that you will _not escalate_ anything that may happen. He’s mending, and that needs to be the only focus. I understand that John nearly hurt some of those closest to the pair of you. I would like to ask your help in keeping them at bay. He’s had enough emotional stress for a while, and he strikes me as the sort to beat himself up with guilt. I’d rather he not be faced with that just now.”

He moved to Sherlock’s other wrist, working it free. “Please do not abuse my staff. They’ve been working diligently to keep you and John as safe and comfortable as possible. Let me help you up, you’re going to be dizzy. Take it slow, I’ll take you to John.”

Sherlock eyed him as he let Mark help him sit up. His hand twitched as he briefly considered punching him. He chose, instead, to speak again. “You’d do better not taking the word of my brother as gospel,” continually insulted by the assumption he’d do anything to harm John... though, in retrospect, he’d put John through a special version of hell at the flat, hadn’t he? Tripping him into one of the hardest PTSD moments Sherlock had ever witnessed of the man, unintentional or not.

“Warn your staff to steer clear of me, and there will not be a problem,” he nearly growled as he sat there, fighting a wave of nausea that washed over him. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame the curls. He muttered, at least someone had washed it while he was asleep. He sighed and looked back up at Mark, the words obviously paining him to say. “Thank you, for looking after John...” He narrowed his eyes, “though I still think you a fool for buying so completely into my brother’s words.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at Sherlock again, doubting his gut reaction. “Do not give me a reason to remove you from him, Mr. Holmes. All I know of you is what precedes you via reputation, and the warning of your brother. Combined with your near rabid go at me, you’ve not the most stellar record here. I _will_ have you out if I need to protect my patient. I understand that you are the star and center of your circles, but here, John Watson is my primary concern.”

He helped Sherlock to his feet, holding tight to his elbow as he let him adjust to the shift in position. When he was certain the detective could stand, he moved his shoes over. Sherlock had been left in his clothing, they decided against removing his restraints for any reason aside from medical emergency. 

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Sherlock stepped into his shoes, eyes narrowed at the man, head tilted at that particular angle he took on when addressing someone he intended to make feel inferior. “My near rabid go at you had everything to do with John being ripped away from me and your sudden insistence on the word of _Mycroft,_ that I needed to be admitted. Which I didn’t. I was doing just fine, thank you.” He straightened his rumpled clothes and wrinkled his nose. He desperately needed a shower and fresh clothes.

“I’m ready.”

Mark led him out of the room, letting his absurd statements hang for now. He’d the growing suspicion that he’d made the wrong call as far as this little reunion was concerned, but there was little for it now. He moved them down into the cornered section of the ICU that housed John, cleared of other patients and their families, nodding at the staff he’d warned in advance. He stopped and nodded to him before letting Sherlock into the dark, cool room. 

“He is not sedated, other than something mild. He’s been breathing on his own the entire time. Last scan was three hours ago. We are watching his pressures and he’ll have an ultrasound later tonight, but he’s much recovered from day one. Please remember what I’ve told you. He needs to stay _calm._ “

Sherlock glared at the man, fingers twitching. “If you warn me once more not to harm the man I love, I’m going to finish what Greg wouldn’t let me quite get started. I’ve told you I’ll not do anything to harm him and I meant it. You can think whatever you want to of me, just pull yourself back from that. John Watson is the entire reason I’m alive and why I went through over a year of hell. Back off.” His voice was quiet, achingly close to what it had been in the flat the night this had all started. The night John had given him the now brilliantly vivid bruise on his jaw, creeping up into his cheek.

He took a deep breath, jaw working before he turned his back on Mark and let his fingertips trail over John’s hand tenderly. “I’m here, John... I’m here.”

Mark had stopped listening to Sherlock warn him off when John’s monitors registered a slight change just as Sherlock began speaking. He stepped back, easing more into the corner of the room to silently observed the pair, unnerved at the startling dichotomy of Sherlock’s vicious tone next to the delicate, gentle manner he handled John. 

Mark lingered for awhile, eyes locked to the monitors. It was clear John was trying to swim back up out of it. He sighed and moved out of the room, stopping at the nurse’s station to remind them to keep security close and to page him the moment anything seemed to go south. He’d not be leaving the hospital for a while yet. 

Sherlock sat beside the bed and held John’s hand. He spoke softly, recounting the time John had been flown to Buckingham Palace to find Sherlock wrapped in naught but a bedsheet. He asked softly if John still had the ashtray somewhere in the flat... he’d not looked for it or seen it in the trunk. He just talked, watching John, eyes flicking to the monitors on occasion.

He was being spoken to. Not just voices conversing around him this time, no, this voice was speaking _to_ him. His breathing picked up, sharper, more shallow. The last time he’d come up there had been...he couldn’t remember, brows knitting as he tried to call back why exactly he was so _afraid_ to surface. 

His fingers twitched and he began to chew at his tongue in distress, his knee bending up in the air as the sole of his good foot slid along the soft linens. 

He rolled his head against his pillow, turning away from the voice at his side, entirely unsure what his situation was now. He wasn’t actively afraid, just...wary...and _fuck_ did his head hurt. 

Sherlock’s voice was still quiet, gentle, “John, you’re at St. Bart’s. You’ve a head injury. Well, several apparently... I’m here. Dr. Walther’s is taking care of you.” Mark’s name was said with an air of disdain. He gently squeezed John’s hand. “You’re going to be alright, bit confused for a while though. Not surprising really.” 

His other hand came up and stroked John’s arm tenderly. “You’ve been in for three days. I’m sorry I wasn’t here... they wouldn’t let me come.”

John went perfectly still as the sound of _that_ voice wrapped around his mind. There were gentle touches on his arm, nearly too much to bear, and his heart skipped over itself as he tried to puzzle out where to place the speaker. 

He should _know_ that voice better than this, knew it was someone too close to have to struggle with. 

Half-afraid, half-relieved, his stomach turned and he slowly pressed his hand to his face. In hospital. Bart’s. Mark. Head injury...it was all jarbled in his head. 

He forced himself to slowly, carefully turn towards the speaker, blinking with great effort as his eyes came open. Everything was still grey, though it could simply be the darkness of the room. His stomach dropped at the sight of the man at his side, utterly unclear how he felt. 

“I-” he flinched as his own voice seemed to splinter in his head, gasping at the shock of it. He dropped his volume and tried again, “I know I should know you.”

Sherlock smiled a bit sadly at John’s reaction, “Yes, it will come back. You’ve got to recover. Sherlock. We’ve been flatmates off and on for the past three or so years...” He gently squeezed John’s hand. He’d not push John at all right now. “Do you need anything?”

He watched John carefully, trying to keep in mind he was injured and that John would eventually remember him, but his heart was breaking nonetheless. He nodded to his hand wrapped around John’s “Is this okay? I’ll stop, just thought you might like to know someone was with you.”

John listened to him, his voice traveling through water, words seemingly out of place, the order taking a long while to puzzle out. 

_What are you doing run! Run!_

He ticked his head to the side, eyes narrowed at the random memory. He licked his lip and slowly turned his eyes down to their joined hands. “I nearly shot you,” he whispered absently, his heart rate kicking up for a moment, “You-” he flexed his empty hand, knee pulling up higher as he turned his attention back to the man’s face. 

“I was instructing a captive and you were translating...but you were not _with me._ What...” he began to recall, his words shifting without his notice between English and Pashto, breathing kicking up. 

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, absolutely. I speak both Pashto and English. The captive was a friendly caught in a bad spot. He didn’t understand you. You thought he only spoke Pashto, when in fact it’s just English and the most god-awfully accented French I’ve ever heard in my life. Surprising really, given his name, Greg Lestrade. Does that mean anything to you?”

Sherlock watched John carefully, his eyes flicking to the monitor periodically, just keeping an eye on things. 

“You’ve just got to rest John. Things will be clearer as you heal. I’m sorry things are so confusing for you at the moment. I’ll be here as long as you want me to be... I’ll leave if you’d rather me do that, too.” He was trying to soothe John’s obviously frayed nerves, stoked by his lack of memory.

“I wasn’t...I...that was _Greg_? I wasn’t…” John’s voice sounded like he’d been dragged through hot coals, raspy and grating, “I was trapped...wasn’t going to hurt him, he was just...the house wasn’t clear and that woman...I wasn’t going to hurt him, I wasn’t. I was trapped. He just...that was _Greg_?” He stared at Sherlock, awash in scattered memory. He was horrified at what he’d done to Greg, recognizing even to himself that none of what he was saying made a damn bit of sense. 

John blinked at Sherlock as cracked bits of imagery flit across his mind. John nearly reached out to him as he recalled his silouette in the window of Baker Street, violin in hand, only to snatch it away again as Sherlock’s words floated, ‘Did they break the great Captain John Watson?’ The thoughts tangled with his confused waking dream, the man at his side leveling a pistol at him and driving a round through his ankle. John’s hands began to tremble violently as he started breathing shallow, panicked. 

He dropped his eyes to the shirt, to Sherlock’s hands, back to his face, his heart racing. “I think...was that...were you...” he clipped in stuttered Pashto, believing himself speaking English, pressing back and away as twisted impressions of the man at his side flitted across his addled mind. His face washed pale and he began to sweat, eyes sliding unfocused and glassy.

Sherlock held up his hands, speaking softly in Pashto, “I was in the house because it’s where we live, together. The woman was Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. I’m going to get up and walk out now. You need rest and my presence is upsetting you. Would that help you, if I left?”

Sherlock was achingly gentle, though inside he was screaming, horrified at what the injury was doing to John. Sherlock had never felt this shattered in his life, watching John actively fear him. Watching John break down at his grave had not hurt as acutely as this. 

“I’m not going to harm you in any way John... that includes staying if it upsets you.”

Mark was pacing just outside the door. One of the nurses had paged him when John woke, just in case. He could hear their exchange, though the bits in Pashto were lost to him. It did seem clear that John was not in control of his linguistic faculties, switching between his mother tongue and that of his specialized military training without rhyme or reason. 

Sherlock, for his part, was behaving impressively. The eldest Holmes had misjudged his younger sibling, and by default, so had Mark. He waved the looming guard off, clearly not in need of him. 

Inside the room, John was pressed as deeply away from Sherlock as he could manage, his head pounding hard enough cause little pulses of white along the edges of his vision. This man was not behaving as a threat, and yet the loudest portions of John’s mind were screaming to him that this was _dangerous_ ; there was an enemy here and he was misunderstanding what he was seeing. 

He pulled his attention away, touching on the room itself, trying to measure where exactly it was that he was resting. _Bart’s_ , he’d said Bart’s. Where Sherlock had killed himself. 

_Where Sherlock had killed himself._

He whimpered as the data canceled itself out, blinking back at the man to his side. “O-One last miracle, for me, Sherlock,” he whispered, _fucking terrified,_ curled fingers clutching over his own heart as it tried to beat free of his ribs.

Sherlock whispered softly, “Don’t be dead... I can give you that, John. I’m right here.” He waited nervously, caught between wanting to run like hell from the stress of the room and desperate for John to recognize him as he was: not dead and very much there for John.

He put a hand palm up on the edge of the bed for John. “I’ve got you, if you want me to.” He was damn near trembling from the situation. 

John’s face fell and he recoiled, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are,” he whispered frantically, shivering with fear, nearly blacking out. 

His monitors chirped warnings and Mark could not hang back any longer. He slipped into the room and held out a finger to Sherlock, indicating he should remain still and quiet for now. He said nothing to John, who had clearly failed to even notice him as he slipped a sedative into his line and put him back down. 

He waited until John went lax, easing his leg back into a decent position, monitors calm and steady, before talking to Sherlock again. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock, it’s expected. He will recover,” he said gently, setting a bottle of pills down in front of him. “Your brother asked that I give these to you one dose at a time. I think you can manage on your own. Come on, there is a shower and a meal down the hall, and your brother has had your effects delivered. we can try again with John in a few hours.”

Sherlock nodded somewhat numbly and stood, no sharp words for the doctor this time around. He collected the bottle of pills and popped one without even paying attention, just slipping them into his pocket when he’d finished. His jaw tensed for a moment as he moved out of the room, feeling like he was trying to put himself back together after having leapt off the roof again.

He took a deep breath when they were in the hall and stole a glance at Mark, “I might’ve underestimated you... But not as much as Mycroft continually underestimates me.” It was as close to an apology as Mark was going to get from Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked suddenly bone weary. “He’s frightened of me...”

Sherlock looked lost at that, worried about John on so many different levels. Anger coiled low in his stomach as he thought about what all had driven them both to this point and his hand twitched slightly. He fought to soothe the rising anger. Meddling Mycroft, endangering John for Sherlock’s sake, running him over London in his state. Were John not in a bed here at Bart’s, Sherlock would be out stalking after him in his fury.

Mark walked them slowly down the hall, grateful it was so late and therefore mostly empty. He watched Sherlock from the corner of his eye. 

“Fear is an exceedingly common symptom of acute head injury. I’ve found him to be frightened in general. Feisty, but afraid. It’s not you specifically, though he seems to have trouble with memory relating to you. Given the history, it’s not a shock.”

He put up a hand as they moved to pacify Sherlock. “Listen, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’ve got bits of your story. It’s incredible, as it stands, and the pair of you..” he shook his head. They rounded a corner and he showed Sherlock into the same lounge he’d left Greg in days ago. 

“They are in there doing his ultrasound right now. Have a shower and eat something. A shave wouldn’t hurt you either. I doubt John will remember much of your exchange next time he wakes up. You have to keep heart, Sherlock. This is par for the course when it comes to head injuries, and he’s been running about London like a damned rugby player since he came home. Give it time.”

 

Sherlock tilted his head as he looked at the doctor, “The pair of us?” He arched a brow. “In any case, given that part of him still believes I took a particularly nasty swan dive from the top of this building, I don’t think he knew I even spoke Pashto before the other night, and that he fished me from the side of the Thames recently, strung out... His memory is going to be, well, what it obviously _is_.” He huffed softly. “Thank you... for not completely listening to my brother.” He patted the pills in his pocket.

Thoughts of Mycroft made him tense. “Prat’s going to get himself killed one day.” Sherlock had hardened as he thought about everything Mycroft had done to him. Ultimately, this wasn’t even Moriarty’s fault... Mycroft had sold Sherlock out, made everything that followed possible. Sherlock’s nails were biting into his palm and he took in a shaky breath.

“You are a different man when you’re not coming down. Keep that in mind next time you itch for a needle, yeah? I get it, I do, you’re not a typical junkie. Just- this isn’t your game. Put your brother out of your head for now, he’s clearly an agitator. I’ll keep him away from John’s room at least. Easy with those,” he pointed to Sherlock’s pocket where the pills were, “if you feel like they are not enough, tell me. I don’t give a damn if you’re drug seeking, I’d rather that be the case and keep you safe. Got it? I’m entirely serious. Let’s not aggravate things here. Have a shower, I’m going to examine John while he’s down. He doesn’t care for me very much, either.”

He gave Sherlock a tight nod and turned to leave him in peace, closing the door before heading back to John’s room. He called Greg on his way,apologizing to the obviously tired voice on the line for having woken him, requesting that he make a stop at the hospital in the morning if he was up for it.

Sherlock gathered a change of clothes from the bag that was draped over the sofa, scratching his chin and sighed softly. He made his way with the clothes and the kit Mycroft, or his minions, had included. His mind was only half there, mostly concentrating on the problems at hand. He needed to stop thinking about Mycroft. All that served to do was tip him closer to a rage.

He blanked his mind as he stepped into the shower, going through the motions of cleaning, finally washing John’s blood off places he didn’t realize it had landed. He sighed as he got out and shaved before brushing his teeth. He felt so much better. Except for the John-shaped place in his soul that seemed to have been yanked out. He muttered to himself and dressed after toweling off his hair.

Sherlock strode back into the lounge, feeling like himself again, anger having dissipated with the steam. He caught a nurse leaving a paper sack and he actually smiled at her. He sat down on the sofa and tucked into the meal she’d left. He sighed softly, just wanting John back by his side.


	14. Chapter 14

John was busy having a very visceral argument with both the sedatives and the imaging teams attempting to run diagnostics . He’d break surface long enough to shout himself horse in Pashto, only to fall back under when his strength flagged. 

Mark hung back, watching it all clinically, the Neurologist beside him tutting as he watched the images on screen. “Frontal has nearly resolved,” he remarked, frowning as he made notes despite the good nature of the news. 

John came back up at the sound of the man’s voice, low and baritone as it was, eyes snapped wild, heart racing. He reached up and shoved the small woman’s hand away, bitterly angry, demanding answers in a tongue none of them understood, Sherlock’s name the only english breaking through. He would not be still, and Mark snarked at the neurologist that he’d upset yet another patient. He tried talking John down, stepping back as John recoiled from his hands. 

When Mark finally went to collect Sherlock, he was winded himself. He knocked lightly at the lounge door before pressing inside, scrubbing a hand over his head. 

“Right, er, you are not going to believe this but he’s asking for you. I think. Hard to make out.”

Sherlock was on his feet, off the couch in an instant. The Belstaff had been tracked down and delivered thanks to Anthea, and he tossed it over his shoulder. He’d been lounging around in it, the scent of his cologne settling into it. He intended to leave it with John. “Pashto again?” He crossed the room and shook his head, “Any ideas on why he’s suddenly speaking it?”

Mark nodded his head as he showed him out of the room. “Got a bleed,” he touched the side of his head, far towards the back as they walked, “directly middle of the speech centers. He’s not aware he’s doing it, I don’t think. That, and he was held captive where that was his only language just before rescue, after a year in a country where they primarily use Pashto, especially in times of duress. I wouldn’t call this _sudden_ , per se, he’s just not needed it in London before. He’s been conditioned to default to Pashto as the language of distress, which he is clearly under a great deal of.”

John was still shouting as they rounded the corner. Mark stopped and turned to Sherlock, “Listen, bringing you here is a bit of a gamble. Your name is laced in most of what he’s saying but there is no guarantee. He’s fighting the sedatives and fighting the staff. I’ve got him restrained, and _that_ isn’t helping, but he was going after his drip lines, was in danger of hurting himself. We are going to try this before I have to knock him down hard, but I’d really, _really_ prefer not to sedate him again. I’m not going in with you, I’ll be right at the door.” Mark led them right up to the entrance of John’s room, the periodic shout in a tongue he didn’t understand shattering the silence, John’s voice panicked and _furious._

Mark put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “If it get’s worse, it’s not your fault. Just walk out, and I’ll put him down.”

Sherlock gave a tight nod as he walked into the room. His tone was sharp for only a moment, just to direct John’s attention to him. He spoke softly then, Pashto flowing off his tongue, “John, you’re safe. You’ve only been restrained because you were trying to rip out your lines. You’re in the hospital. No one here wants to hurt you.” He didn’t touch him yet, just seeing if John could focus on him first.

He did gently drape the Belstaff over the railing of the bed where John’s hand could grasp it. He moved so that he was in John’s line of sight. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back as he continued speaking. “Please stop shouting. You’re scaring everyone. I’m here to help.”

He reiterated that John was safe in hospital before continuing on.

“They say you keep saying ‘Sherlock’, but they do not understand anything else. Can you tell me what else you’ve been saying?”

It took a few moments for the low registers of Sherlock’s voice to get through to him. John blinked slowly, trying to get his eyes to work for him, shocked quiet by the man in front of him. 

“Impossible,” he whispered to himself, tugging hard at the restraints, his eyes locked to Sherlock. 

He turned away, slamming his eyes shut, muttering to himself as he struggled to gain back the words he’d been shouting. “Please,” he whispered again, “make them let me go. I don’t know anything, I have no information to give. I’m a doctor. I do not have signifigant intelligence.” 

He turned back and opened his eyes, a cracked sound of distress breaking from his lips. “You’re not here. You _can’t_ be here,” brittle Pashto, soft tones, pure confusion in his expression. 

Sherlock sighed softly, “Improbable, not impossible. Reach your right hand out, you’ve enough give in the restraints.” He took a step forward. “No one here is trying to hurt you, nor do they want information from you. You’re in the hospital, in London. You still reside at 221B Baker Street and I’ve recently come back home. You fished me from the side of the Thames about a week ago strung out because I thought they’d killed you.”

He didn’t know what else to try but the whole truth, well, save for the bit where he’d told John he loved him, at least for the moment. He had no idea how to proceed. He took a breath and smiled slightly at John. “Can I touch your hand in a moment? Let you know I really exist, you’re not hallucinating?”

John cracked a desperate laugh, already trying to reach for him. “I know you _exist_ they _had you._ How-” he tried to calm his breathing, looking wildly around the room, fingers already laced over the familiar material of the Belstaff. 

“Bart’s?” He added, calmer, a pained expression on his face as he tried to puzzle it out, put it together. “We...I can’t… _none of this makes sense!_ ” He was so damn angry with his confusion, tugging again at his restraints, craving freedom, unable to reach Sherlock. 

Sherlock was to his side in just a couple of steps, hand lacing through John’s left as he leaned over and brushed a kiss to his forehead, unable to stop himself, desperate to calm John. He straightened up and then hooked the chair that had been shoved back with his foot. He dragged it close and sat, eye level.

“Calm, just calm, it’s okay. You’ve had a bit of a scare with a head injury. Things are going to be confusing for a while. We were in Greg’s police car. No one had us... We were just racing you here. It doesn’t make sense because your brain isn’t processing properly.”

John gripped at Sherlock’s hand as tightly as he was able, his breathing hitching, staring at him a bit panicked. “I don’t remember,” he gasped, tearing up, still testing his restraints at his right. “Please let me go, Sherlock, please I-” his breathing caught and he shook his head, biting his lip. 

“Did I hurt someone? I can’t...why didn’t they understand me?” he felt like he was falling, as though everything was collapsing in on him. 

“You’re still speaking Pashto, John, we both are. No one around here has any clue what we’re saying. You have a bleed, speech center. Mark proposed that you’re stressed, obviously, but that because of the stress you’ve defaulted to Pashto out of a defense mechanism. I’ve a feeling he’s right.” He gently squeezed John’s hand. “I’ve got you though, I’m here.”

He looked to the door and back to John, “As for the restraints, you’ve tried to pull your lines out and have fought everyone like mad. I don’t know if we can let you out. You’re going to wind up hurting _yourself._ That’s what everyone is concerned about.”

John’s face fell and he slowly turned away as he lost hold of the tears, unable to cover his face with his hands restrained. He’d been terrified to be locked down and captive once again, and here he’d done it to himself. It was terrifying to be so trapped. He kept his fingers around Sherlock’s, gripping tight enough that his hand was shaking. He stopped fighting the bindings, defeated. Sherlock had avoided telling him if he’d hurt anyone, and he did not ask again. 

For a while, the silence was scattered only by the occasional hitch in his breathing, a sniffle between silent tears. He held on for dear life. 

“It’s so fragmented,” he breathed, feeling sick at his stomach. “I...” he turned back slowly, blinking at Sherlock, tears washed across his face, “the Thames, right? I found you. Mycroft...I woke up and...a cave one minute, on the hunt for you the next. He...he _lost you._ ” 

“Yes, you found me. I don’t know how, but you did. He lost you too. Fat lot of good he is.” Sherlock fought to keep the snarl out of his words. His jaw worked for a moment as he fought to tamp the anger at his brother down. He took a breath and continued, “You’re safe though, I’m safe... Everyone is safe. We scared some people, but everything is going to be alright.”

He brought John’s hand up slightly, as much as he could with the restraint and splayed his hand, kissing his palm before tucking their hands back against the bed. “I’ll not let anything hurt you John, not now, not ever.”

He rested his head against the rail for a moment. “It’s cold in here, would you like me to cover you with the Belstaff?”

John bit his lip and nodded his head, looking away from Sherlock again. It was exceedingly hard not to panic in the restraints. 

He stared at a fixed point across the room, brows knitting as the color seemed to bleed away. “Do you see that?” He asked, his heart rate hitching up as he stared harder, blinking against the image. 

Sherlock calmly answered as he stood, gently pulling the Belstaff across John. “I wasn’t looking, would you tell me what you saw?” He leaned to catch Mark’s eye, his own brow raised as if to tell him something was going on. “Can I invite the doctor in? Maybe we can ask him about the restraints...”

Sherlock seated himself beside John again, wrapping his hand around John’s, long fingers lacing through.

John’s eyes darted from the wall to the new man walking into his room. He’d seen him before. “You’re,” he began before his hearing clouded out and his mouth ran dry. He blinked and turned away as though he’d not said anything, eyes fixing back on the point across the room, fingers going lax in Sherlock’s hand. 

His eyes drifted closed and for a minute he appeared to be sleeping, leveling out, relaxing down into the bedding. 

Mark moved to the side of the bed, arching a brow at Sherlock in question, reaching down to touch his fingers to John’s forehead. The result was instant and electric. 

John’s eyes snapped back open, staring horror-struck at Mark before realizing he was being touched, attention snapping over to Sherlock. He whimpered and looked back at the walls, shouting as he tugged desperately at his restraints. He called out at the top of his lungs for Sherlock, even as he looked right at him, eyes unfocused and wild. 

Sherlock snapped at Mark, “Back off, just back off, out of the room, let me see if I can get him calmed down before you drug him. I don’t think I can but, damn it, give me the chance!”

He ignored Mark, unaware if he was gone or not. He spoke to John, using his clipped, irritated with everyone around him tone, “John, don’t be an idiot... I’m here.” His voice wavered slightly though, wondering what the hell was was going on in John’s brain. It was cracking him apart, breaking pieces off of him bit by bit.

“John, love, _please._ I’m right here with you, I promise no one is going to hurt you.”

His lucidity cracked away. John pulled and twisted at his restraints, rattling off his name and rank, his occupation and unit, watching with wide eyes as the room distorted around him. 

“We’re all drowning,” he rasped in Pashto, eyes cutting to Sherlock without an ounce of recognition, tears rolling down his face. 

Mark had not left the room, only backed out of John’s sight. He remained held back, studying John, calling for neuro. “Sherlock he’s...this is something electrical,” he called out from near the door, waving a nurse over and rattling off meds he wanted at the ready in case this went south. 

John had gone very, very still, his breathing panicked and wild. He stared down at his feet before dragging his focus back to Sherlock, openly struggling with himself. “I know-” he rasped before his eyes rolled back and he went perfectly still. 

Sherlock had tears on his face of which he was not aware. His voice was thick, heavy as he spoke to Mark, “Name, rank, that sort of thing. He told me ‘we’re all drowning’ and just now ‘I know’ before this.” He stood, swaying where he was, the sight before him almost too much to handle. He sat back down quickly and scooted back so he was out of the way, somehow curling his legs up into the chair, nearly perched in it.

He was flicking back and forth between the monitors and Mark. “He was terrified, I think, I don’t know... he looked at you and said ‘you are’ that’s when it started. I don’t know... I don’t know. He was fine until then, upset about the restraints.”

Sherlock was _babbling._ He was terrified. John was shattering in front of him and there was nothing he could do about it. This was so far out of his scope he couldn’t even think. His breathing was too shallow, too fast, making his head swim.

Neuro showed up right after John had gone still, listening to everything Sherlock was saying, pushing meds. Mark moved over to Sherlock, leaving John to the specialists, grabbing the detective by his shoulders and shoving his head down, crouching in front of him as he held a hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck neck to keep his head between his knees. 

“It’s a seizure, Sherlock, he was just confused, it’s just a seizure. Breathe, slowly, okay? He won’t remember this, he’s okay.” He assured, wanting nothing more than to get Sherlock out of there, kicking himself for sending the man in anyhow. 

He looked back over his shoulder, relieved to see that a simple dose had pulled John out of the worst of it, leaving him unconscious and lax on the bed. “Look there, they’ve stopped it. Can you stand? Let’s get you out of here a while.”

Sherlock looked panicked at the thought of leaving John but forced himself to stand up. He nodded after a moment, “Okay, okay. I... okay.” He forced himself to the door and hesitated. He took in a shaky breath and moved out into the hallway, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Christ.”

Mark had an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, willing to have his head bit off for the physical presumption, unwilling to let the man go to the ground. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head as he moved Sherlock back towards the lounge. “What on earth are you sorry for?” he asked, frowning at the increase in hallway traffic as the late hour shifted early and the hospital began to buzz with life again.  
Sherlock looked at him as though he were stupid, “For that pathetic display in there. Falling apart like that...” He stood a little straighter, yanking his clothes and smoothing them out. Slowly he was slipping the mask back on, still badly shaken from watching John seize like that.

He took a deep breath, “Are these permanent?”

Mark shut the door to the lounge behind them, letting go of Sherlock as he headed for a lower cabinet, plucking out a bottle of whiskey. “Shh, don’t give me away,” he said as he tipped a measure into a mug for Sherlock and handed it over, capping the bottle and replacing it. 

He settled back down on the sofa and took a deep breath, “It’s too early to say, Sherlock, but I doubt it. Without a history...what we are looking at now seems to be the culmination of a perfect storm. If any one of the factors was missing, I doubt we’d be seeing this sort of reaction. Closed head injuries are nothing to play with. John knew that. Why he didn’t come back when the symptoms started, I have no idea.”

He shook his head and pressed on, “He just needs time. I know this is difficult, it always is hardest on the loved ones. You are doing a stellar job so far. Don’t waste energy beating yourself up for possessing humanity. I’m going to go turn over morning reports, but I’m on retainer and John’s primary. I’m not leaving the grounds until he does, okay? Get a little rest if you can, yeah?”

Sherlock’s voice cracked as he spoke, “He didn’t come back to hospital because of me... It’s my fault. He was too busy trying to take care of me and my rages and sobbing fits that he didn’t come back.” Sherlock stared at the whiskey in the mug, as though it held everything and nothing at the same time, before he downed it and set the mug on the table in front of him. “I need... I... air, I don’t know.” 

Panic was rising. Everything was his fault. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair aggressively as white hot anger lanced through him. “I should’ve stayed in the fucking jungle. At least there I only hurt people who needed it.” his hand was absentmindedly rubbing his left shoulder. His tone had darkened again. He was so close to snapping. He needed out, out of the hospital, away from people. Out.

He stood, eyes darting around. He needed his bag, where was his fucking bag? Mycroft... bloody Mycroft hadn’t sent it. Sherlock’s jaw worked as he backed towards the door. He’d have to get past whatever idiot goons Mycroft had at the flat.

Mark went to his feet, hand up as he spoke gently, watching Sherlock fall headlong into panic. “Sherlock, this is anxiety. Textbook anxiety. This is what John did when he ran out into London alone. Let me help you, this isn’t going to help, it will only make it worse. No one is blaming you but yourself.” He tried, wishing he knew the man better. 

Meanwhile, Greg and Molly were just stepping off the elevators to John’s floor, answering Mark’s request from early in the morning that they come. Molly had a coffee in hand for Sherlock, Greg with his hands comfortably in his pockets, still rattled but on the mend.

Sherlock was shaking his head and his eyes snapped back to Mark, his voice rose in volume, “You, back off. I will finish what I started... Stay away from me.” He shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. He whimpered softly and backed into the wall before sliding down it. “Just don’t... don’t come near me.” He couldn’t fucking _focus._ He just wanted John to be ok, just, be ok. 

Molly looked at Greg suddenly, “Was that Sherlock shouting?” She looked concerned and took off towards the sound at a fast walk.

Greg swore under his breath and sped up to keep at Molly’s side. That had clearly been Sherlock shouting, and he’d rather not have her at his unrestrained mercy. “Molly wait,” he called out, taking her by the arm and pulling her back, “listen, Molly, Sherlock can be...not himself, when he’s worried, okay? Just...careful around him, yeah? I don’t...he would never intentionally do anything but...John and Sherlock are just not themselves.”

Molly looked at the hand on her arm and back up to Greg, something flickering across her face before she spoke calmly, “I still had my own flat when Sherlock left... He sure as hell didn’t stay with Mycroft. I know you’re trying to protect me... Let me go. I can handle this. Ok?” She wasn’t angry, just needed him to let her go for now. “I’ll be alright. I promise.”

\---

Sherlock was trying to reach up and turn the doorknob so he could get the hell out of the lounge and away from Mark. His fingers kept slipping. He was shaking and didn’t even realize it.

Greg scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and exhaled slowly as he followed Molly into the lounge they’d been directed to, watching as she tried to swing the door open, catching sight of the first doc they’d seen and the expression on his face. 

_Shit, fuck, bugger._

He stayed directly at Molly’s side as she pressed in through the narrow opening of the door, his nerves on edge, ready to put Sherlock to the ground at the slightest provocation.

Sherlock yanked his arm back and looked up as Molly came in the room slowly. He reached up suddenly and yanked her to him. Molly gave a small yelp and then quickly amended, “I’m okay, Greg!” as Sherlock wrapped up around her, breaking down. She was trying to shift in his arms and finally made it, tucking his head against her chest as she ignored Mark and Greg.

Molly was speaking softly as Sherlock babbled about her counting. “I know, Sherlock, I know. I count and always have, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. Alright?” She ran her fingers softly through his hair as she held him. Molly had long ago got past her blinding crush on Sherlock to realize she needed to mother the childish man. She’d been the only other person he’d kept contact with. Hell, she and Greg had nearly broken up after one too many nights of her locked the the downstairs lav speaking in hushed tones to someone on the phone.

She lightly rocked him as they sat there softly humming to him. Her eyes finally met Mark’s as if asking what the hell was going on...

Mark blinked down at them, shaking himself out of the startled reprieve of seeing the stoic man reduced to such childlike behavior. He stared at Greg, scrubbing a hand to the back of his head. “We’ve uh, had a rough night with John. He seized on Sherlock recently and I’m a fantastic ass, inadvertently made Sherlock feel responsible. He’s not. I uh, yeah I’m going to leave him to you lot? Page me if you need me, I’ve got to go see to John.”

With that, he slipped out without another word, glad to have backup for the surly man he only narrowly understood. 

Greg set his jaw and looked down on Sherlock, sighing as he watched him coming apart, still a bit uneasy with his Molly locked so close to him. 

Molly slowly but surely extracted herself from Sherlock’s grip, “Come on, up to the sofa. Let’s go. Greg, a hand?” 

Sherlock let them pull him to his feet and he wandered over to the sofa. He muttered something at Lestrade about keeping Molly safe and well or he’d kill him. Molly shushed him as she laid him out gently. “You need rest. Quit threatening Greg. He’s the only reason your two asses are alive, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock grumped at her but let her cover him with a blanket from nearby. He curled, facing the back of the sofa and she sat beside him, hip next to his and slowly rubbed his back, soothing him as though he were a child.

She sighed as he started falling asleep and looked at Greg, voice soft, “He just falls apart sometimes. I’m not sure John had ever even seen it before The Fall... Just curls up and cries. Well, not sure he did it before The Fall. I don’t know. I think he spends so much time so far above everyone, so alone...” She shrugged, shaking her head. “I don’t know...”

Greg stared at Sherlock’s back, milling over it all. He watched Molly’s hand and shook his head. “Who ever knows with Sherlock?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He moved to a chair at Sherlock’s side, sweeping his eyes over the room. “These two make me worried, Molls, it’s a hell of a lot of damage done.”

She smiled softly, “That it is... But look at everything they’ve survived. John just needs to heal and Sherlock needs therapy... of sorts. I’m not sure who will take him on. Greg, have you talked to Mycroft to figure out where Sherlock has been, what he’s done?” Molly teared up for a moment, having been on the end of some disturbing phone calls.

“Jesus, Greg, he’s been shot, stabbed... he called me asking how to extract shrapnel from something. I still don’t know what that one was about or if it was even himself he was asking for...”

Greg’s lips pinched to a fine line. He gave her a tight nod and looked away. “Mycroft gave me a decent rundown when he told me Sherlock was still alive. Not all of it, I’m sure, but more than a few things that might hit my desk. I don’t think he can go to therapy, Molly, he’d be self-incriminating. He’s going to have to bank on John, I think.” He shook his head and pushed himself up, going to the coffee pot at the back of the room. “What a mess.”

Molly bristled at Greg, body going tense as she started to light into him. Sherlock’s hand closed around hers.

“I’m still awake you blithering idiots.” He gave Molly’s hand a squeeze. She smirked slightly, “Rest, you need it.” 

He huffed at her slightly. “I am resting.” He paused, “I’m well aware we’re a pair of messes, Greg, and that John scared the ever living hell out of you, that I put you through hell the weeks and months before that... But no one is forcing you to be here if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock was ruffled, feeling already impossibly low before he’d heard Greg’s words about having to depend on John when he already felt responsible for the state John was in.

Greg stopped pouring the coffee into his mug and set the pot down, shoulders tight and nerves singing. He stared at the steam rising out of his cup, counting silently, closing his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath and collected the mug. 

“Right then,” he said gently, not at all wanting to upset Sherlock any further. He done the best he could do for them, the cut hurt. He took a deep breath and nodded tightly before slipping back out of the lounge without another word. 

He took to the halls, moving slowly, aimless. He considered going to see John but then thought better of it, finding his way to a random, empty waiting area instead, leaving Molly and Sherlock to themselves, his presence obviously unwelcome. 

Sherlock waved Molly off before extracting himself from the sofa. He pulled himself up. “Just, stay...” He was out the door before she could protest. He hunted through the halls, several wrong turns before he found him. He’d take paths he thought Lestrade would choose at first, increasingly frustrated with not finding him, before he’d happened upon him by chance.

He stood in the doorway, jaw working as he tried to find words. He finally spoke, French soft, twining through the air. “I’m sorry, friend. Things are especially horrific right now and I’m worse than normal. Forgive me?”

Greg was one of the few people he would apologize to and mean it: he’d kept Sherlock safe when everyone else had given up on him on several occasions.

Greg looked up, utterly startled to see that Sherlock had followed after him. He pushed himself up, setting his coffee down. 

“I know, Sherlock...I didn’t expect you to come after me. I, hell I feel like a right ass, I didn’t realize you were awake. That bit with John...taken me a bit more than I’m used to getting over it, I guess.” He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and moved closer to Sherlock, choosing to take advantage of his captive attention. 

“This isn’t your fault, you know? John made his choices, had his chance to get help. He knew we would take care of you. Don’t put that on yourself.”

Sherlock raked a hand through his hair as he moved to a chair. “But it all comes back to me in the end. All of it. Moriarty... it’s all my fault in the end.” Sherlock shrugged lightly. “I can’t... He doesn’t know me half the time Greg... doesn’t know who I am, if I will _hurt him_ or not. I don’t... I don’t know.” He took in a shuddering breath.

“He was horrified when he realized it was you that he had at gunpoint... in one of his lucid moments. Utterly horrified. Just so you know...”

Greg came to stand at Sherlock’s seated side, dropping a hand to his shoulder. “I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me once he got me in the car. He came round a bit there at the end, I know he wasn’t...wouldn’t have done that if he’d known who I was.” 

He shook his head and sighed. “Listen, about Moriarty...Sherlock you don’t understand what life with you did for John, what he became when you were gone. You were not _inflicting_ that life on him, you were _saving him_ with it. I don’t know that I can be the one to explain this to you...he just...I watched John Watson put you in the ground, and then he never really walked away from that grave, most of him stayed with you. I know this is hard right now, really, really damn hard, but he’s better for you here in ways I can’t begin to explain.”

Sherlock took a breath and nodded. “I need to see him... will you walk with me? I just, I want to look in on him, make sure they haven’t taken his blanket. He needs it right now.” He stood and stretched, “Just, before I get some rest, please.”

He looked almost lost, just exhausted and wrung out. He needed to take another pill when he got back. “I, remind me to take my medicine though, when you go fetch Molly? I don’t want her back there yet... if he’s awake he’ll likely yell at her if he’s lucid. He’s still very angry with her.”

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed, swiftly nodding. He left the room first, already on his feet, knowing Sherlock would follow soon after. He made his way slowly to John’s room, not ever having stopped in before. He leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the door and nodded his head, not quite ready to go in. 

“I might...I don’t know, he might become scared of me again. I don’t know.” Greg explained.

“It’s okay, I’ll only be a moment...” Sherlock moved into the room and set about carefully adjusting the Belstaff over John, making sure he was tucked in well. He leaned down and brushed a kiss to his forehead, pausing long enough to whisper softly, “I love you.” 

He stood and trailed a finger down John’s hand, standing there, just gazing at the monitors, eyes drifting closed after a moment. His lips worked over an old latin prayer, something he’d not done since he was a very small child, never seeing a need for it, nor really believing in it, even now... but it seemed appropriate.

Greg rolled his wrist, checking his watch, eyes going to the nurses station. He smiled at the young man behind the desk before looking down the hall. God he was exhausted. He leaned into the room for a second, never catching sight of either man before hearing a familiar voice behind him. 

His stomach dropped and he whirled around, shaking his head with his hands out. 

“ _Really not a good time, Mycroft._ ”

Sherlock finally forced himself from the room and came abruptly and unexpectedly face to face with his brother. The surprise was written across his expression before strings started snapping inside him. One by one threads unraveled and broke loose. Sherlock’s voice was cold, dark, frightening, the anger rolling off him in potent waves, far scarier than his persona in the flat had been.

“Mycroft Holmes, I suggest you walk away.”

Mycroft arched a brow, once again, underestimating his little brother. He shook his head and scoffed. “I’ve heard you made a fuss the night you came in. Tried to strike a doctor. Really, Sherlock, what would Mummy think?” He tapped his umbrella on the floor as to emphasize his point.

Sherlock was actually growling as his fists balled up. Most of what usually comprised Sherlock simply gone, thrown back to the man he’d had to become to wipe out Moriarty’s nests.

Greg looked between the brothers, watching Sherlock rise like a bloody volcano and Mycroft somehow missing the impending implosion. Sherlock was coiled, clearly about to strike, something feral and horrifyingly placid painted across his features. 

“No,” Greg said suddenly, slipping between his Consulting Detective and the Head of The British Government, braced for an impact at any time and praying it wouldn’t put him off his damned feet. He pushed a hand backwards, facing Sherlock, staggering Mycroft off his balance. 

“Go, Mycroft. Right the fuck now.” He dropped the explicative to shock the elder into action, one hand reaching forward all the while, fingers curling in Sherlock’s shirt just at his shoulder, shoving him back hard to the wall in an effort to upset his swing before he threw. 

Sherlock snarled at Greg even as Mycroft seemed to realize his brother was, indeed, dangerous this morning. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Sherlock. The younger brother was glaring down at Greg and he snapped at him, “Get out of my way before I hurt you. You _know_ what I’ve done, what I’m capable of. I suggest you _move._ ” He snaked an arm under Greg’s and swept it up, dislodging his grip and shoving him back.

Mycroft was backing away even as Sherlock lunged, fist drawn back. He landed the blow with a sickening crunch to Mycroft’s nose, suddenly screaming at him even as the two of them went to the floor. Mycroft was flailing, trying to beat the younger off of him with his umbrella.

“Sherlock, no!” Greg shouted, scrambling back to his feet, fingertips pushing up off the floor in his hurried effort at leverage. He hardly regained his posture as he got to the struggling men, swearing as Mycroft got him with the damned umbrella. Sherlock had him well and properly pinned, hyperfocused and wild in his efforts to get at his brother. 

He swore and swept his eyes over them, taking a sudden, timed leap that lodged him shoulder-first into Sherlock, unseating him, rolling them off of Mycroft and to the side. “Go!” he shouted to Mycroft as he shoved Sherlock down hard to the floor, hooking a leg over him, digging down hard into the shoulder he knew the old gunshot wound to be, fucking loathing every second of doing so. 

“Sherlock stop! Stop!”

Mycroft was on his feet, handkerchief to his nose as a nurse fairly shoved him down the hallway. He was muttering softly to himself as he went. Sherlock meanwhile was panting, growling at Greg to “let my fucking shoulder go!” as he stilled, eyes still wild, but unwilling to hurt Greg even under the circumstances.

He finally went lax against Greg and the floor, growling, “Alright... alright!”

Greg let him go the second Sherlock relented, panting hard, not yet letting him up. He pointed at him, careful not to put his finger in Sherlock’s face. “You are _not going_ -”

A terrible sound cut him off, seizing up his heart. Greg swore and turned his head to where the fight had broken out, the unmistakable sound of John’s panicked screaming floating down the hall. _Jesus Christ_. 

“Sherlock,” he warned before the man could move. 

Sherlock was tense all over again, glaring up at Greg, “Move... Just, fucking _move,_ Greg.” His jaw was working overtime as he fought every urge to try and toss the DI across the hall and run for John’s room.

Greg was at a total loss. He looked down at Sherlock and back to John’s room, understanding exactly fuck all John was shouting. The sound sent a chill of memory down his spine. He tossed his hands into the air and let Sherlock up, _why the hell not_? Molly was just making her way around the corner, worry and shock clear on her face. 

John had been sound asleep when there had suddenly been the unmistakable sound of Sherlock’s screaming. His eyes snapped open and he’d found himself bound fast and immobile, in pain and in the dark. His heart was racing out of his chest as he wrestled for his life at the bindings, desperate to save Sherlock from whatever they were doing to him.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and was down the hallway, skidding around the corner into John’s room. His voice was pleading, gentle, completely and utterly 180 degrees from where he’d been only moments ago, “I’m here, love, I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re okay, everything is okay. I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” He had no doubt he’d woken John while screaming at Mycroft. He’d promised not to stress John... though Mark had promised to keep Mycroft the fuck away.

He twined his fingers into John’s in a desperate bid to calm him down. His own body tense, in pain from everything grating his now well worn nerves.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, flexing his fingers hard around his, “you’re shaking, oh god what’s wrong? Let me loose, _please let me loose_ , I can help you get out of here!” he was desperate, chest flailing, struggling to get free as he watched Sherlock at his side, “What did they do? Are you hurt? Oh god, please let me go, let me help you!”

Greg, outside the door, decided he could handle exactly no more of this, grabbing Molly to his side and storming off toward the room they’d shoved Mycroft into. He came in with his finger out, advancing on the seated man with cotton shoved in his nose. “You are going to make this disappear, do you understand me? This didn’t fucking happen.”

Mycroft leveled his gaze on Greg, looking as though he was going to argue for a moment before nodding. Right now he wanted nothing more than Sherlock dragged out kicking and screaming in handcuffs... but he’d regret it later when he’d got over having so misjudged his brother. “It never happened.”

\---

Sherlock cursed softly under his breath and looked wildly around the room for a moment before talking softly, “No, no, John, it’s okay. Mycroft bloody well showed up.” His jaw tensed again, “I think I broke his nose. I was screaming at him. Jesus, John I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Please calm down. Please... Christ...” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I love you, I love you, _please_.”

John moved to touch Sherlock’s face, only to have his wrist caught by the restraint. He bit his lip and watched Sherlock, the tips of his curly hair reflecting the light from the hall, clearly shaking. He made a desperate sound of distress, tugging his arm again. “Please, I can help you...please let me loose,” he begged, choking on the word, frightened and wanting to help Sherlock, clearly not understanding. He swept his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand again and again, doing what he could. 

\--

Greg walked back out into the hall with Molly and dropped his head to her shoulder, exhaling a shaky breath, one hand wrapping around the side of her hip. “Jesus,” he breathed, hands shaking, relieved that Mycroft hadn’t put up a fight. 

Molly leaned into Greg softly before stopping him and pulling him in for a short kiss. “What happened?” She hadn’t seen most of it, just heard the commotion. She’d never really heard Sherlock like that. It was the first time she’d truly been frightened of the man. She’d heard some things that had let her know Sherlock was capable of being a very dangerous man... but what she heard from him tonight... 

\---

Sherlock cursed and yanked on the restraint, undoing John’s left arm before reaching across and undoing the right. Before John could move much he’d dropped the left side of the bed and was crawling in beside him, narrow frame curling against John’s. He laid his head on John’s shoulder gently, arm snaking about his waist, fully prepared to yell for help if something happened and John went sideways on him.

He couldn’t help himself as he pressed a soft, but desperate kiss to John’s lips, giving him ample opportunity to pull away if he needed to.

John reached out with shaking hands and curled his fingers in Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him closer, dragging him into the bed like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. His hands were everywhere as he made sure Sherlock was in one piece, desperately searching for blood, still confused to their situation. He was, at the least, very, very clear that was Sherlock at his side. 

Sherlock’s lips on his pulled something desperate from him and he all but sobbed against Sherlock’s lips, “I love you,” in dusty Pashto as he pressed small, swift kisses to Sherlock’s lips, his heart racing in expectation of someone tearing them apart at any second.

Sherlock’s tension melted away immediately. He kissed John over and over again. “I have you. I love you. John, gods.” He held close to him as he whispered, “I’ve got you, we’re safe, nothing can get us. We’re going to be alright. I promise. I will make it all alright.” Sherlock meant every word. He kissed John again, slower, tenderly this time, less desperation than he’d started with.

Molly peeked her head in the door and squeaked, ducking right back out. She was blushing furiously as she leaned back against the wall. Sherlock hadn’t even heard her.

John pulled back after a moment, winded, scared. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s chest as he wrapped his arms tight around him, trying to move his still-bound legs. He gave it up and just clung to Sherlock, muttering in broken clips and phrases against his chest, nonsensical, lost. All he knew was that he had Sherlock, and he’d not risk losing him. 

“They have my radio,” he muttered, shaking his head, threading his fingers desperately in Sherlock’s shirt, ears ringing sharp and monotone. “You’re not hurt? I can help you...tell me if you need help...why are you shaking? I don’t have my radio, I can’t call for backup...I don’t know where the rest of the team is.” 

He was losing himself, even as he kept Sherlock, reverting to what he knew best. 

\--

Greg swore as he made his way back to the lounge, snatching Sherlock’s pills off the table, reading the label as he walked back to John’s room. “Yeah, we’re going to double that,” he grumbled to himself, tipping two into his hand before determinedly sweeping into John’s room. He slipped up behind John, hoping to catch Sherlock’s eye without alerting John to his presence, holding out the pills in clear view whenever the daft man would bother to look up and _notice_ him.

Sherlock nuzzled the top of John’s head tenderly, “Your radio is safe. I’m keeping it, okay?” He decided a small white lie would set John’s nerves at ease more than trying to explain, yet again, where they were. The movement finally caught his eye and he met Greg’s. After a moment he understood and rotated his wrist so his palm was facing up even as he murmured to John in Pashto.

“I love you, I’m shaking because I was was angry with Mycroft. I’m okay now, just the after effects. They have me on some anti-anxiety medicines. I’ll be okay. How are you feeling, love?” he asked as Greg tipped the pills into his hand.

“Like I’m lost,” John whispered back, pressing against Sherlock, sleep pulling him down. “You have the radio? Why would they...” he shivered and settled down in Sherlock’s arms, closing his eyes, knuckles white in the fabric of his shirt. 

Greg was still in the room, backed nearly to the door as the pair went still. He stopped and took a moment to watch them, biting the inside of his cheek. His eyes darted over them, taking it all in. Any other time he’d have felt a bit of a creep for doing so. At the moment, he sorely needed the reminder that these men..these friends of his...were indeed just two lonely sods at the end of the day, needing a bit of help like anyone else. 

John twitched and mumbled to Sherlock, pressing a palm to his head as he winced, and Greg finally left them alone. 

Sherlock popped the pills and nuzzled John again, “It’s okay John, you need rest, just rest. I’ll be right here. I love you. Is your head hurting? Do you need something for the pain?” He pressed a kiss to John’s head. “Let me get you something, yeah?” His voice was soft and he gently rubbed circles on John’s hip as they lay there.

\---

Molly looked up to Greg as he came back out, “Everything okay?”

\---

John bit down on his lip at the idea of painkillers, scarcely believing them a possibility. “Do you...can...yeah, please yeah, god it hurts,” he whispered, hardly daring to hope he could have a reprieve from the pain, feeling tears prick at his eyes at the very suggestion of relief. He looked up at Sherlock, vision swimming. “I- yeah,” he clipped, carefully letting Sherlock go, reluctantly moving his hand away. Had his head not felt as though it were about to split along the seams, he’d never have been able to unhand him. 

\--

Greg reached down with one hand and pulled Molly up gently from her chair, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her gently. “I’m so damn glad I have you,” he whispered before kissing her again, exhausted.

Molly was surprised at the rare public display but melted against him and stayed there for a long moment. “I’m glad I have you too... let’s get you home, let you rest. Okay?” She tugged him gently down the hallway.

\---

Sherlock gently kissed John again. “Do you want me to go and get it or do you trust me that the person who will bring it is safe?” His question was gentle, trying to soothe John.

John stared at Sherlock, trying like hell to sort it all out. None of the pieces fit together properly. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” he breathed in reply, pressing close again to Sherlock, clinging back to his side as though he expected him to vanish. Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease with their situation. John pulled at his foot to ensure himself he’d not imagined having been recently bound in place. He let slip a small sound of distress and grit his teeth as his head flared. “Okay...okay...don’t leave me like this, I’m not even armed,” he whispered, burrowing into Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock hit the nurse call button and requested pain medicine for John, and for them to page Mark when the nurse came on the line. He murmured reassurances to John switching back to Pashto for him. “Let me undo your restraints at your feet... okay? They’ve only been there to keep you from hurting yourself. Let me sit up long enough for that?”

He pressed a reassuring kiss to John’s forehead and slowly sat up. His fingers worked the restraints quickly, loosing John’s legs. He curled his frame back down and let John work out how he wanted to lay. “Nurse will be here momentarily, John... I know you keep forgetting and it’s okay, but you’ve had a brain injury, you’re going to be fine, it’s just taking time to heal. You keep waking up afraid you’re back in captivity.” He snuggled gently, “It’s all okay. I’m here, you’re safe in London at St. Bart’s.”

John could hardly process that, letting his fingers tell him the truth as he reached for Sherlock, curling down against him. “Those sound like wonderful lies,” he confessed, sad, not accusing, just sorting out what he could. 

He drifted nearly instantly as he lay his head over Sherlock’s heart, clinging to him, fading into the constant agony that was the inside of his head. 

When the door to his dark room opened he tensed, instantly reacting, moving between the view from the door and Sherlock as much as possible as his heart slammed against his ribs. “Don’t move, stay behind me” he whispered to Sherlock, as though he’d any chance of protecting him. 

“Shh, John, it’s okay. I promise it’s okay. It’s a doctor or nurse.” He looked up and spotted the nurse. “It’s just the nurse, just the nurse. She’s here with the medicine I promised you. Can you stay calm for me?” He tilted his head for the nurse to come and merely said, “Hurry, just do it.” before dipping his head back to John. “I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.”

The nurse made quick, practiced movements and popped the painkiller in John’s line. She nodded to Sherlock and slipped back out, never saying a word. Sherlock kept his soft murmuring up. “I’ve got you, it’s okay, the medicine should start working soon.”

John was bordering panic, forcibly making himself listen to Sherlock even as he recoiled from the woman at his back. He grit his teeth and pressed his face into Sherlock’s chest, clinging, breathing too fast and too shallow. At first he mistook the sweeping warmth of the medication in his veins, fighting against it as he had the sedative. “Why?” he bit out, betrayed as he struggled to keep his eyes open, “You said...you said...” he slowed down, the pain in his head muting before pulling him down hard into sleep. 

Sherlock sighed softly and kissed the top of John’s head. He just held him and waited on Mark to show up. His eyes stung at the obvious betrayal that had been in John’s voice. Gods, but he was exhausted. Mark finally appeared in the doorway and Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips, wanting him to whisper. He spoke softly to him.

“I... Mycroft was here, I was screaming at him, woke John, he’s just had painkiller... I untied him, he was frantic and has been much calmer with me right here. I, Jesus, I did what I thought was right in letting him loose.” His exhaustion was showing, eyes starting to droop from the double dose Greg had given him. “I think, Greg... I took two pills earlier, he brought them to me.” He was starting to babble slightly, worn out and pushed to breaking.

Mark had been filled in on some of the details by the scandalized staff, most of whom were ready to throttle the elder Holmes after having witnessed the entire thing. “Greg texted me, told me he gave you more than I wrote. It’s okay, in this instance I think that’s more than called for,” he answered gently, quietly going to John’s side. 

He looked down on the pair, frowning. “I hate to say this, Sherlock, but I don’t think you should sleep like that. He’s notoriously combative. You’re drugged. I just can’t see this ending well for either of you today. If he wakes up and doesn’t know who you are...” he trailed off, watching Sherlock carefully. 

Sherlock made a swift, desperate sound of distress at the thought of leaving John. He buried his face in John’s hair for a moment. He took in a deep breath and slowly began untangling himself, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand as he slipped out of bed. His chest tightened at the thought of having to bind John again and he choked the words out softly. “I-I can’t, you’re going to have to do it... I can’t put them back on him.”

He stood by the bed, looking down at the sleeping John, the pain of leaving him in that bed, alone and tied up again, written all over his face. His jaw tensed as he carefully pulled the side rail up and nearly collapsed into the bedside chair.

Mark held up a finger and swept out of the room for a moment, returning in under a minute. He went to John’s side, gently taking up his hands, slipping the restraints back in place at John’s wrists, deciding to leave his legs free. Just as he was securing the last buckle, an orderly wheeled in a folded cot. 

“It’s not the lounge sofa, but somehow I think you’ll fare better with this,” Mark whispered as it was set at eye level next to John’s bed, several pillows and a stack of blankets laid out to soften the harsh mattress. 

“Up with you, Sherlock,” he muttered, slipping an arm under Sherlock’s elbow, helping him to the bed. “Please don’t take him out of those restraints without me, okay? It’s fine, he’s just...his mindset can slip very quickly and we don’t want either of you hurt.”

Sherlock nodded as he let Mark all but put him to bed. “I’m sorry...” He curled up on the cot and reached his hand out, fingers curling around John’s. “He has to be ok. I can’t... not without him.” He was mumbling as he drifted to sleep, already sinking into the drugs and the horizontal space so close to John. It wasn’t perfect, but it was wonderful all the same.


	15. Chapter 15

Greg ended up following Molly back to Bart’s in the morning. He wandered around the morgue for a while, watching her work, exchanging a few texts with the yard from time to time. When he knocked a beaker over for the third time, Molly huffed at him, kissing his cheek and sending him out to _anywhere other than the morgue, Greg._

That anywhere ended up to be John’s room. He stopped at the nurse’s desk and asked if he could go in, finding him on a list of folks allowed entry less than ten in number, to include medical staff. Coffee in hand, he found himself a relatively comfortable chair and settled in, honestly surprised to find the pair of them still sleeping, curious as to why Sherlock was no longer in John’s bed. Only then did he realize John was once again restrained. His heart sank and he shook his head sadly. What a mess. 

Sherlock had been drifting in and out for a while and he rolled over to look at Greg, “Morning” he said in Pashto before shaking his head and switching to English, “Sorry, wrong language. Morning... Set myself to Pashto before I fell asleep in case John woke up.” He yawned and sat up on the cot, hair every which way. “I need coffee...” 

He was still disoriented, waking up in strange place after a rough night. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Greg, “Thanks... for saving that idiot. I’d hate to go to jail.”

“Yeah,” Greg said as he pushed himself out of his seat and pointed to the lav, “go wash up, I’ll grab you a coffee.”

He shook his head as he puttered down the hall and found the pot, pouring it black and grabbing additives for the side. He was startled by a hand on his shoulder, nearly spilling the coffee everywhere as he swore and turn around to see one of the morning nurses smiling apologetically, offering him a small paper bag. “Since you’re going back in there,” she said calmly. 

He sighed and shuffled back into Sherlock and John’s room, setting the little bag of food and the coffee down by where Sherlock had been sleeping, taking up his chair again and gratefully sipping at his own coffee. He set the cup down and stretched, rolling his head on his shoulders before his focus shifted and he suddenly went very still. 

“John?”

Sherlock had just stepped back out of the lav when he heard Greg’s hesitant address. He crossed the room and spoke softly, saying good morning both in English and Pashto to see which one he responded to.

He crawled onto the cot and laid down facing John, reaching out to curl his fingers around John’s hand gently. “John?”

John blinked down at this hand before slowly moving his eyes across the room, touching on random, meaningless details. He kept his body lax and would have appeared to be sleeping were it not for his open eyes. He was being spoken to, he knew it, and the tones let him know that his company was not angry. Soft fingers were over his and he finally directed his attention back to the man at his side. 

His lips parted and he nearly spoke, flinching back slightly and opting for silence. He turned his attention to the man at his feet, the one who first addressed him with the silvered hair. His heart rate picking up as he studied him... he knew that man, but could not place him. He realized, neutrally, that he could not place anything, really.

He was calm, just taking in his surroundings and finding he had exactly nothing to pair the data to, finding no threat and no comfort. He simply _was_ as he turned back to the dark haired man at his side, watching him quietly. 

Sherlock smiled reassuringly, “St. Bart’s in London, you’re safe. We’re friends of yours, well he’s a friend... Not sure we’ve figured out what I am yet.” His voice was kept soft, he’d spoken in English this time, watching for any recognition. He had no idea how John was processing speech today. 

He gently squeezed John’s hand before moving his own to the rail, keeping his fingers where John could take hold of them if he wanted. He chewed on his lip for a moment, daring a short glance to Greg before looking back to John. “We are here to assist you, John, nothing more. You are quite safe.”

John watched him talk, his focus zeroed in on the movement of his lips and the timbre of his voice. John’s brows knit occasionally and he closed his eyes as the room fell back silent. He was making great efforts at quieting the growing sense of unease in his chest, breathing slightly faster as he failed to understand any of the words, feeling as though he _should_. He raked through his mind, trying to grab hold of any memory. 

What he found when he pressed into his mind were scattered bits of random images, some terrifying, others as bland as a spoon in a mug of tea. The fragmented clash of imagery lit a spark of abject _fear_ in his gut. He bit his lip and shook his head, a stuttered sound of distress slipping past his lips. He forced a slow breath and cracked his eyes open again. 

“Watson,” John breathed, as though capturing his name would somehow aid him. 

Sherlock nodded and gently switched back to Pashto, “Captain John Watson, yes. I’m Sherlock Holmes, that is Greg Lestrade. We’re friends of yours. You’re safe, in London, in hospital. You’ve had some trouble with a brain injury. No one here is going to hurt you. Are you in pain?”

Sherlock offered a small smile to John while his heart broke, loathing that John’s fears from the night prior had come to fruition. He’d fought rest so aggressively to avoid forgetting. Sherlock knew it was just going to take time, but gods did it hurt. 

“John, everything is alright.”

John nodded at him and immediately regretted doing so, hissing as pain fanned across the back of his head. His brows knit and he reached for the sharpest point of pain at the back of his head, hands stopped at the wrists by the restraints. 

His eyes shot open as adrenaline spiked down his chest, looking from the taller man to the seated one, tugging at his arms again before dropping his eyes to the bindings. His face fell and he suddenly dragged his attention away from the men back and back to the room, frantically trying to assure himself he was safe, trying to recall where he was. He was not a patient, clearly. 

He was a _captive_. 

Terrified rage shot through him, “Let me go,” he demanded, his attention back to Sherlock, glaring at him. Why had he been compelled to listen to this man?

“John,” Sherlock began, watching John fall away from him further, “you’ve been medially restrained to protect you from yourself. You’ve been making a go at your lines and proving a danger to the medical staff. If you can remain calm and focus, we may be able to release you. Can you tell me where you are, what I told you a few minutes ago?”

His hand reached down and fingers brushed against John’s knuckles tenderly. “I’ve got you and you’re safe. I promise. I would never allow any harm come to you. I promise on my life. You’re safe. Absolutely safe.”

He nearly lost his composure as his heart broke, hardly able to see John suffering so. “Please... Stay calm. You tried to hold your head... does it hurt? We can get you something to help.”

Greg was silently watching the exchange, not understanding much of it, though John’s expression told him everything. He pulled his eyes away from John’s face, watching Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock was using a tone that would suggest he believed John would find comfort with him. Greg swore and got to his feet, putting a hand on Sherlock’s arm, wanting to protect him from the inevitable heartbreak when John did not.

“Sherlock, he doesn’t know you,” he whispered, sweeping his eyes over John once more. He knew the look on John’s face from when the doctor had stared at him in his squad car, lost in his own mind. 

None of what was being said made any sense. Half the words had no meaning at all. Absurd words like _safe_ and _calm_ wrapped around his chest and he panted against the fear, twisting his wrist in a vain effort to free himself. 

“Let. Me. GO!” he shouted at them, loathing the way he was shaking, sitting in a fog of nothing but his current situation, no supporting data, nothing but this sense of lost unease and bound fear. 

Sherlock’s vision blurred as he withdrew from the cot. He was striding out the door, chest too tight as he headed for the desk, “John’s hysterical again,” he whispered to the nurse on the other side of the station. 

He was trying to breathe as he eased into the chair by the door. He’d just abandoned Greg to handle John on his own, but he could do little else. He couldn’t stay in there, not with John like that, it was only making them both upset.

Sherlock tangled his hands in his hair and folded himself over, just staring at the floor, blinking as a tear shattered over the polished linoleum. His chest was uncomfortably tight, chin pressed up and back in a bid to keep himself from breaking down and openly breaking down. 

Greg watched Sherlock leave, honestly relieved that he’d removed himself as John sat there seething, trembling on the bed. He kept his expression calm and gentle, though he made no effort to speak to him, hands deep in his pockets, taking a step back to keep John as at ease as possible. Greg had far more experience handling the mentally unstable than Sherlock did. Coppers were the first line of defense where the violently mentally compromised were concerned. 

John had his eyes fixed to the door, blinking slowly, upset and feeling loss though he had no idea why. He watched the entrance as his mind made its best efforts at functioning. “Why don’t you go with him?” He asked in Pashto without turning his head to Greg. 

To Greg. 

_Greg._

His heart rolled over as he turned back slowly, sweeping his eyes over the man, brows knitting as the nurse came in. “Greg?” He whispered, eyes cutting sharply to the nurse as his mind raced, slow-trickling memory working back. He honed in on the syringe in her hand, fear so sharp it nearly made him sick up.

“No, please, _please_ , Greg h-help, oh god, don’t, please don’t,” he pleaded, fighting against the restraints, frantically looking for Sherlock.

“Where is Sherlock? What did I-? Greg, where is Sherlock?” he was bordering tears, pulling his hands, trying to keep the nurse away from him. 

Greg, for his part, heard his name through the rest of a language he couldn’t understand and watched John’s expression clear, putting a hand on the nurse’s shoulder before calling out to Sherlock, keeping his eyes on John. 

Sherlock was back in the doorway, scrubbing at his face with a hand, his voice slightly clipped, “What?” His eyes fell on John though and he tilted his head, words soft, as he held out a hand. “Back with us?” He barely dared ask.

He took a few steps towards the bed, slowly crawling up to sit on the cot beside John, “I’m here... it’s going to be okay, I know it doesn’t seem like it...” His hand was trembling as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around John’s.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, grabbing tight to Sherlock’s hand as he looked between him and the nurse, his chest catching, “I didn’t know, I didn’t... I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he rambled desperately, English, taking Greg by surprise, “I’m sorry, please, _please_ don’t let them do this to me, oh god, please, I can’t.”

He was clearly afraid of whatever it was the nurse had, using his good foot to push back into the bed, “I won’t again, I’m sorry,” Pashto, eyes locked to her hands, “please.”

“No,” Sherlock’s Pashto soft, “You were getting hysterical. It’s okay, she’ll go away...” He looked up to the nurse, switching back, “It’s okay... he’s back, still speaking Pashto mostly, obviously, but he’s lucid and that needle is terrifying him. Leave.”

He leaned across the rail separating them and pressed a kiss to John’s temple before tipping his head gently on John’s, not giving a damn what Lestrade saw. He murmured softly to John, “It’s alright love, she’s going to leave. I promise she’s going to leave. Does your head hurt? Your leg? If you need pain medication you can have some... okay?”

John leaned desperately into him, resigned to the restraints, tipping his face as close to Sherlock as he was allowed to, breath hitching on a sob as he nodded that yes, he would like something to help with his pain. 

“I’m so sorry I forgot again, I can’t... it just goes away from me,” he whispered, forgetting himself and trying to reach for Sherlock before whimpering and giving it up, just leaning against him as long as he was allowed to. 

Greg dragged a hand over his face and walked out of the room for a moment, his own heart racing. Fuck this entire thing. If that was _Molly_ in that bed...

His feet set off before his head, taking him on a brisk walk as his nerves twisted and he let his mind wander, entertaining ways he’d like to encounter Mycroft Holmes on the street. 

He nodded, “Last night... we gave you pain medication and when it hit you were upset with me before it yanked you under. Would you like me to call for Mark? See if you can have pills? It will come on slower, but, maybe it won’t just knock you out?” Sherlock reached over and pressed the call button anyhow.

“I’m going to see if we can at least let you out of the restraints for now, since you’re back with us. I... he wouldn’t let me leave you untied or sleep with you last night. I think this morning proves why. I just. I’m sorry, I called for the nurse. I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”

The nurse came on the line and he asked for Mark to be paged half in Pashto before switching to English long enough to speak to her, “Page the doctor for us? We have some questions.”

Sherlock leaned against John gently, “I let you loose on my own yesterday... I’m sorry, I don’t know how much you keep from day to day, it’s been so spotty for us all. Mark told me I couldn’t do that without him again. He didn’t... he wasn’t upset, just concerned so... Let’s see what he says, okay?”

He just sat there holding on toJohn as best he could until Mark showed up, stopping in the doorway as to not frighten John.

“Good morning,” Mark said gently from the door, keeping the smile from his face at the sight of both men, both of his patients clearly in or recently away from tears. He walked in slowly, keeping his eyes on John, measuring his reaction. 

“Doctor Watson,” he greeted with a gentle nod, stopping at the foot of his bed, looking over John before looking at the monitors. “How are we doing today?”

John pressed harder against Sherlock, no memory at all of this man in the room. He watched him carefully, fingers of the hand opposite the one Sherlock held turned defensively to a fist, shrinking back. He didn’t understand a word of that. “Who is that and what the hell is he saying?” he whispered to Sherlock, his heart racing, knowing that he should understand, should know this man, and terrified at the reality that he did not at all. 

Sherlock spoke softly, “Mark, he’s your doctor. He’s asking how you’re doing today that’s all.” He pressed a kiss to John’s temple, “It’s safe, he’s safe. He’s just here to help. He’s been taking care of me too, okay? I’m going to tell him how you’re feeling.” He turned back to Mark.

“He doesn’t even understand English today. He speaks it, occasionally, but it’s not processing when someone speaks it to him. He wants pain medication and we were going to ask about losing the restraints for now, while he’s lucid. He’s afraid of people he doesn’t recognize... But the pain meds, can he have pills? He was upset with the rapid onset last night...”

Sherlock nudged John gently, “Just telling him about everything this morning, love.” Sherlock switched back and forth between the languages fluidly.

John bit his lip and took a shallow breath, tipping his face to Sherlock’s shoulder and closing his eyes. God, he felt _pathetic_ with all this drowning in fear. There was no logic to it. Sherlock wasn’t afraid, and yet terror lit him up at every new face.

“I didn’t... had memory of _nothing_ this morning. I didn’t know... I can’t explain it, Sherlock,” he breathed, “I remember things like pictures dumped on the floor, just...out of order, meaningless until they are randomly _not_. I...”

He grit his teeth and pulled slowly on his restraints. “ _Please_ , please make him let me go Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked back up to Mark, translating what John had said swiftly, “He desperately wants loose. I doubt he will cause any harm now that he at least knows who I am. In fact, I’d say he’s going to get hysterical if we _do not_ release him.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand reassuringly. “Let him think, John, it’s been very frightening for everyone.”

Mark didn’t need to think on the restraints. He reached out to begin unfastening them, drawing his hands back sharply as John yelped and drew away. He motioned for Sherlock to go ahead as he began slowly speaking. “While you’re with him, okay, Sherlock? He cannot be left alone like this at _all._ ”

He tapped his lip, thinking on the painkillers. “He’s not taken anything by mouth since getting here. I don’t know if his stomach can take it. Let me give him a loading dose now, at a lower measure, and then we will try him with water and crackers. See if he can keep it down. I’m not ready to stress his body like that if we don’t need to. While it’s concerning that he’s not getting English, it is highly encouraging that he remembers _you._ That’s a very good sign. I wonder if we can keep him awake for a few hours? Let’s try for that, okay? See if he remembers this morning by say..noon?”

John, all the while, was struggling not to climb the walls after Mark had so suddenly reached for him, pressing tighter against Sherlock, dragging his leg up defensively. “Please, Sherlock, please help me,” he was whispering, his logical process clouded with fear. 

Sherlock’s hands were working his restraints and he quickly got them off as he listened to Mark, gently murmuring to John, “I’ll tell you everything in a moment, stay calm for me,” He quickly dropped the rail and sat on the edge of John’s bed, hips next to one another. He wrapped John gently in his arms as he spoke to Mark.

“Let me explain everything to him while you set things up? It sounds like a good plan to me but you know what you’re doing... I don’t, I’m just trying to help him any way I can. I won’t leave him.” 

He nuzzled John’s temple gently, “Just a moment more, I promise I’ll explain everything. You’re loose though, I’ve got you.”

John wrapped tight to Sherlock’s side, nodding that he’d wait, eyes on Mark. “Tell him I’ll stay awake if he wants,” he whispered, not realizing he’d understood some of what the doctor had been saying, his own language slipping between the two tongues. He was shivering, his head hot with pain, but he felt calmer with his hands free and Sherlock close, breathing slower, “I- just don’t tie me down, anything, just don’t tie me down.”

Sherlock smiled, truly smiled, “Well he understood the bit about staying awake. I don’t know how much you caught, but he’s willing to stay awake. He’s worried about being restrained.” Sherlock kissed John’s temple again, swiftly telling him everything Mark wanted to do. 

He pulled back gently and looked at him, “How does that sound?”

Mark watched John nod, pleased with the progression even over the last ten minutes or so. He put up his palms for John and waited until he had his eye contact. “John,” he called out gently, reaching out slowly to set a few fingertips on John’s arm where it wrapped around Sherlock. 

“I would like to asses you, can you let me take a quick look? Just as you are, do you understand me?”

John’s skin was on fire where Mark was touching him, his teeth clenched hard and a thin sheen of sweat beading along his brow. He was breathing much faster while being directly addressed, struggling hard to understand what was said. None of it registered right away and his face fell.

“I-” he bit out in English, stopping to look away, his head throbbing. He tucked his face into Sherlock’s neck and mumbled to him in Pashto that he didn’t understand, that he was afraid.

Sherlock soothed him softly, “He just wants to examine you. You are understanding bits and pieces, love, it will come back. Can he please check you over?” Sherlock’s hand gently came up and lifted John’s chin so he was looking at him, “It’s going to be alright. It will come back.”

He brushed a kiss to his lips, just brief and smiled to him, “Just let him check you over.” He looked up to Mark, “He’s afraid. Not sure why, but he’s frightened.” He kept gently rubbing circles on John’s hip with his other hand.

“We’ll leave it for now, then. Let him calm down,” Mark said calmly, drawing his hand back. He turned to the drawers and drew up a smaller dose of medication for John’s pain. He debated just slipping it in without drawing attention, but thought better of it. 

“John,” he called out gently, the syringe in view when the man rolled his face away from Sherlock’s neck. This gave him an opportunity to asses him at a distance, at least. He crouched down, narrowing his eyes slightly as he took in John’s overall appearance. 

John forced his face away from Sherlock, recognizing his name at the very least. He looked at Mark, and then his eyes slid to the syringe and he went stiff. “Sherlock?” he breathed, heart racing, knuckles blanching in Sherlock’s clothes. He made no effort to retreat, just pressed against the man at his side and wildly hoped he wasn’t delusional to trust him. 

Sherlock smiled softly, words against John’s ear quietly. “It’s ok, it’s just pain medication, remember? He’s backing off and just observing you. He doesn’t want to startle or frighten you. Everyone here really just wants to help.”

Sherlock kissed John’s jaw as John watched Mark, “It’s just a low dose of pain medication. I promise.” He nuzzled John again, just trying to soothe as he held him.

Mark stood back to his full height and slowly reached for the line, going through the motions of administering the medicine, watching John closely. 

John forced himself to relax, prising his fingers away from Sherlock’s shirt, breathing slow and controlled through sheer force of will as he watched the man. Sherlock was safe, no one was after Sherlock, and that would mean that no one would be after only John. He swallowed thick and closed his eyes, resting against the pocket of Sherlock’s shoulder, sensing Mark step back after a moment. 

“Thank you,” he breathed in English, not willing to open his eyes just yet, afraid the room around him would fade away. 

Sherlock murmured words of praise to John as they sat there. “I’m so proud of you, John. You’re doing so well. You’re an amazing man.” He held him close. He looked up to Mark and flashed a genuine smile. His nerves were scratching at him, reminding him he should probably take some medicine. His coffee and food sat forgotten on the table at the head of his cot.

“John, love, can I let you go long enough to take my medicine?” He’d leave off eating until John was at least trying crackers or asleep again. He gently kissed John’s temple before stretching out and snagging the pills and coffee off the table. He narrowed his eyes at the tremble in his hand as he opened the pills and shook one out. He tossed the pill back and swallowed, taking a drink from the tepid coffee left from Greg.

When that was done, he returned to John’s side. “Feeling any better yet? It’s a small dose...”

Mark was leaning back against a counter, arms crossed casually across his chest, watching them both. “No,” he answered for John, watching John’s monitor, which betrayed John’s pain with too thready a heart rate and blood pressure far too high, “he isn’t. That may not be enough.” He shook his head and dropped his eyes back to Sherlock. 

“You look terrible,” he said calmly to Sherlock, dropping his eyes to Sherlock’s shaking hands. He drew a deep breath, thinking about how he was going to handle these two. He tipped his head to the bag, “eat that, will you?” 

John had his side against Sherlock, less desperate now that Mark was earning his trust and the medication had taken the edge off of something, at least. He had the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, breathing slowly. 

“Wasn’t Greg here?” He whispered carefully, flinching as his voice hurt his own head. 

Sherlock shook his head at Mark, “I’ll not sit here and eat in front of John while he goes without. The very idea is repellant. No.” His eyes narrowed slightly before he turned his attention back to John, “Yes, Greg was here. You recognized him after a few minutes and asked for me, apparently.”

Sherlock hung his head for a moment, “I’m afraid I could not tolerate the confusion this morning. I- well, I bolted... straight for the nurse. I’m the reason they came in with the sedatives.”

He sighed softly, “I’m sorry, John.”

John startled hard, his hand snapped down on Sherlock’s wrist as his eyes flew open and he wrenched himself to the side, suddenly staring at Sherlock with open panic. “You were screaming. I heard you you were screaming right out there,” he pointed to the hall, eyes raking over his bruised face, “Greg was here and... Mycroft had.. _.I_ did this to you,” he was tumbling down a long, jagged hall of memory, carefully touching the swelling on Sherlock’s jaw, tears stinging at his eyes, “I did this to you.”

All English, all clear and concise. Mark leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed, flicking between John and the monitors. 

“I keep thinking I’m back in the caves... I keep forgetting you... I- you were r-right to restrain me. I’m dangerous.” The color drained from his face as he recalled the feel of Greg shaking under his hands, “I put a gun to Greg’s head and-” he shut his mouth, at the end of the trail abruptly, blinking over at Mark. 

“Jesus, what’s wrong with my fucking head, Mark?” Clear as the day, as if nothing had happened at all. 

Sherlock and Mark were both staring at him now. Sherlock finally spoke. “You did do this to me. I purposefully provoked you into it. Mycroft was here and I’m am quite certain I broke his nose. I likely would have hospitalized him had Greg failed to knock me off of him. You did, indeed, put a gun to Greg’s head, though he’s been back to visit. He knows you were severely disoriented, that you believed him a threat. You failed to recognize Mrs. Hudson or myself as well. I had to come translate and convince you to speak English to Greg. You kept yelling in Pashto at him... in fact you haven’t even been understanding English for the most part for a couple of days.”

Sherlock paused and gently cupped John’s cheek. “It’s going to be ok... I’ll let Mark explain what happened technically...” He looked up at Mark, hopeful now that John was remembering on his own.

Mark shook his head slightly, watching John carefully before speaking. John was sitting in a daze, head bowed and eyes dropped to his lap, tears rolling slowly off the tip of his nose as Sherlock’s words settled across his mind. He stared at his hands, hands that had nearly wounded his friends, as his entire world fell in on itself. 

He closed his eyes as _that_ night came back in screaming clarity, brows knitting as he gasped and ticked his head to the side at the memory of little Mrs. Hudson screaming, fleeing from _John_ in fear for her life. His fingers reached up at a shock of pain and tangled in his shirt over his heart, cracking apart. “What have I done?” he whispered, Pashto once more.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers in John’s, his own heart breaking, Pashto spoken quietly, “You were frightened, injured, you only hurt yourself. No one holds this against you, none of it. We all care about you.” He laid his head against John’s, his own vision blurring. He’d never been so consistently emotional in his life.

“Alright, the pair of you,” Mark whispered gently, shaking his head. “John’s getting a full dose of this, and Sherlock, you are going to eat, or you are going to leave.”

He drew up the remainder dose with his back to the men for a moment, itching to get on the phone with neuro. He turned back around and didn’t give John the opportunity to protest, dosing him right away. He dropped the needle in the sharps box and then turned back to Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Forget the plan from earlier, forget it. You eat, and then you sleep. You both are going to end up in psych at this rate. I mean it Sherlock, I mean it.”

Sherlock glared for a moment but reached back with a free hand and snagged the bag. He peered into it and fished out the banana first. He peeled it and started nibbling on it as he leaned into John, completely unwilling to be separated from him. “Fine...”

He huffed slightly and pulled John closer as he watched the medicine hit him. He gently laid him back and held his hand, “Rest John, let the morphine take the pain...” He was walking a razor’s edge at the moment. He knew Mark was right but it _hurt_ to feel so useless.

Mark looked down at John, glad to see him at least laying down and for once, not fighting against the drugs. He touched Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned close, whispering just for him. “Don’t volunteer unless directly asked. I wasn’t expecting this today _at all_. He may not remember a thing when he wakes up, just let this happen slowly. This is a _wonderful_ sign, Sherlock. Give it time, keep him calm. Keep up with your food and meds.”

And then he leaned away, clicking off the few dim lights that were on, and shutting the door behind him. 

John blinked in the darkness, rolling to his side and wrapping around Sherlock’s hip. He reached up and dropped a hand over Sherlock’s thigh where he sat, fingers running over his leg gently, trying to soothe him. “I’m trying,” he breathed, sniffing hard, tucking his face to Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock smiled softly, “You’re doing wonderfully, love.” He finished the banana and reached back in. He pulled out the sandwich and laughed softly, “John, I’m ten again and sitting alone in the schoolyard... there is a jam sandwich in this bag. Only this time, I’ve got you.” He turned enough so he could see John. “I’ll lie down with you in a moment.”

He quickly finished and brushed the crumbs off himself. “Come on, wrap up with me, let’s get some rest.” He tilted John’s sleepy face up to his. “I love you, John... try to hang on to that.” He smiled softly.

John curled against him swiftly, abundantly glad to have his wrists free. He listened to Sherlock’s heart beating beneath his ear and closed his eyes, floating for a while before shifting, realizing that he had to work in that moment to recall what was going on. He bit his lip, afraid of losing himself again. 

“When I wake up...I keep thinking I’m there, yeah?” he breathed, fingers tightening in Sherlock’s shirt. “I don’t want to forget who you are.”

He pressed closer, struggling for a solution. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock, I... god, I love you, I’m so sorry I keep forgetting.”

Sherlock shh’d him gently, “Yes, you keep thinking you’re in the caves. I’ll be right here. I’ll try to be stronger. Now if you wake up and don’t remember me I can back off and see if you come around a bit a few minutes later like you did earlier. Just rest, get some sleep.”

“I don’t want you to have to be stronger for me,” John whispered, stroking fingers along Sherlock’s neck, biting his lip. He was already fogging out, his understanding slipping and fuzzing out at the edges.

“Please, please if I forget, oh, please tell poor Mrs. Hudson...” his voice cracked on her name and he shook his head, choking on guilt, “and Greg, oh god, I- I’m so sorry.” He tucked his head down and took a deep breath. 

“I’m never going to be able to go home,” his voice cracking as he started drifting off, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Oh, John, we’ll go home, they know, but I’ll tell them.” He kissed the top of John’s head. “Just rest, I’ll be here with you.” He gently rubbed John’s back as he held him close. 

He was so exhausted. He listened to John’s breathing as his eyes drooped.


	16. Chapter 16

John let himself touch on the edge of sleep before ruthlessly dragging himself back awake. He counted, and recalled, and recounted. Repeating slow and steady to himself where he was, focusing on Sherlock under him, latching hard to the familiar scent of him. He dusted along in the strange, floating void in his head, longing for sleep and denying himself, terrified to forget. 

He had no idea how much time passed, but it felt like hours upon hours, enjoying the feel of Sherlock with him despite his hunger for proper sleep. 

_Bart’s. London. Sherlock. Home. Brart’s. London. Sherlock. Home._

He had taken to whispering the words as it became clearer that he was in danger of falling completely out. 

Sherlock was drifting on the edge of consciousness, sometimes dipping under only to be dragged back by John’s soft whispers. He murmured against his head softly when it happened, trying to comfort despite his mostly asleep state. He nuzzled close and eventually fell under, body forcing him to rest with the aid of the drug and food.

He clung to John as he slept, entirely unwilling, even in his state, to let the man go. 

John kept as he was, going silent after a while, grateful when someone would sweep quietly into the room to check vitals. It was just enough fear to keep him from dropping off to sleep and losing everything. He kept his ear to Sherlock’s heart, angry with himself, head aching despite the medication. 

This wasn’t going to work for long, he knew, but he would be damned if he did that to Sherlock so soon again. He kept up his determination, slipping close to sleep before tugging himself back, waiting for Sherlock. 

It was a few hours before he surfaced more permanently and gazed down at John in his arms, eyes heavy, trying to shake off the sleep. He yawned softly and nuzzled John’s head gently, “I love you,” quiet, whispered English in his sleepy state. 

 

John’s fingers tightened in the material of Sherlock’s shirt, near tears at this point. “Sherlock,” he breathed, just to let him know that he was aware of who he was. He pressed closer, the inside of his head grating like broken glass. But he’d held on, and he just wanted to keep his memory. He opened his mouth to speak again and suddenly felt impossibly ill, groaning and shaking his head, feeling sticky with sweat. He should have let himself sleep. But he’d lose Sherlock and...he exhaled slowly and forced himself still, clinging to Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock frowned as he watched John, “Did you sleep at all?” Pashto curled through the air as he snuggled against him. “Clearly you have not. John, you need rest... please. You’ll remember me, even if not right at first. Okay?” He tenderly rubbed John’s back. “I love you, rest, please, before you make yourself ill...”

He was concerned, having no idea how long he’d been out. It was obvious John hadn’t been resting.

“I don’t want to forget who you are,” John all but croaked at him, feeling like brittle glass. He closed his eyes and sagged down against Sherlock, quite suddenly losing his grip and dropping hard into sleep. 

Mark made his way back into the room just in time to hear John whisper something to Sherlock in a language he’d not likely ever learn, eyes narrowed as he came in closer, watching John obviously drop away. His hand shot out, fingers pressed to his pulse as he looked at Sherlock in question. 

Sherlock huffed as John basically passed out in his arms and looked up at Mark, shaking his head. grateful to speak English again for a moment. “He said he didn’t want to forget me... apparently the arse has been awake the whole time I slept. I should have stayed up and tried to get him to sleep... I just couldn’t. Could not keep my eyes open.”

He sighed and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead before chewing on his lip, “I cannot understand,” he whispered, obviously irritated, “this is not so much data that my mind is incapable of processing it, and yet I cannot sort the information. Bloody emotions. Refuse to go into their proper box.”

Sherlock’s jaw worked in unsettled irritation, his fingers trailing against John’s hip. “I don’t even know what this between us. Beyond ridiculous, that is to say. I’m meant to be married to work and he’s bloody _straight_. I don’t... I mean...” Sherlock faltered, suddenly realizing he was babbling and swiftly shutting himself up.

Mark shook his head and clicked on the overhead to demonstrate how out of it John really was. “Come on, up with you. Go have a shower, get a bite to eat. Let me get him another MRI in before he wakes back up,” he said as he dropped the siderail, offering a hand to Sherlock if he wanted it. 

“Look, I know this isn’t exactly my area, but I see a lot of couples in here. Until you just said what you did here now, I assumed you both were years into marriage. This man loves you, and you love him, and I’m the only straight fellow in attendance. So, take that as it’s meant, would you? Go take care of yourself. Let me handle him.”

Sherlock bit his lip to stifle a threatening sound of amusement and made his way out of the bed. “Flatmates, two years before I faked my death. Gone for almost eighteen months...I’ve been back a month? Thought John was dead and I resorted to the needle. He pulled me from the side of the Thames. Everyone assumed we were a couple before The Fall... funny how things work out.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You’re right though,” Sherlock whispered, his voice dropping as he looked back to John, “we love one another. If there is more outside of the affection, well, I suppose that will sort itself later.” He gave a brief smile before slipping out and heading down to the lounge.

He took his time, cleaning up and checking to see what was actually in the garment bag sent over by his brother. Only one change of clothes remained. He slid out his phone and called his favorite cleaners, promising a nice tip if they’d come pick up his two dirty suits and launder them.

He ventured to the cafeteria on his own and ate in the corner, sending a quick text to Greg, thanking him for stopping by. He even cheekily sent one to Mycroft inquiring about his nose. He got nothing in response, though he hadn’t expected to... just wanted to needle the man.

Sherlock headed back upstairs slowly when he spotted her. Kitty Riley speaking animatedly to a nurse. He ducked out of sight, glancing back out as the nurse shook her head. He heard John’s name and had enough, striding down the hallway towards her, face set. The nurse scooted back in her chair as he loomed up behind Kitty. She turned slowly. To her credit, the fear was only visible for a moment.

Sherlock’s voice was low as he gazed down at her, “I do suggest you leave Ms. Riley. I’d hate to ask security to escort you from the premises.” His eyes were cold as he watched her, “I do hope your editor got the information I sent regarding Mr. Moriarty, the man with whom you resided with in your home.” It was a purposeful dig. Sherlock had been able to uncover everything and slowly but surely fed it to Mycroft. He had to give Mycroft his due, he’d gone about clearing Sherlock’s name expertly n higher circles, only now allowing it trickle to the right people in the press.

Kitty bit her lip and sauntered right up to Sherlock, leaving only a breath of distance between them, eyes sparkling as she swept her eyes over him. “Well, aren’t you just the most fantastic looking spectre I’ve laid eyes on,” she said happily, lacing her words heavy as she openly flirted with him. “Your little wires about our poor late Jimmy were much appreciated. But he’s yesterday’s news. Your war hero boyfriend-turned-maniac is _so_ much juicier at the moment. Care to give a statement?”

Sherlock smiled at her as though he were a cat at the creme, dropping his expressions sincere. 

“Oh, _absolutely_. By all means, go ahead and paint John as a maniac. He’s a decorated hero, as you’ve said. Saved people’s lives, something you would know nothing of. Why, you practically make your living destroying lives with shoddy journalism. I’d call the office if I were you.” He pulled out his cell phone, firing of a message to Mycroft. He and his brother may be in the center of a dispute, but Mycroft would still protect him.

“You might need to pursue a different line of work if you continue down this path. As for the rest of my statement: He’s a hero who suffered injuries while in the line of duty, most notably attempting to save the life of a young soldier while closely guarding government secrets at great personal cost. He is, without a doubt, much farther away from the description of manica than you are, Ms. Riley... though given your propensity for men like James Moriarty, I’m not sure how much that says about John.” He leaned in ever so slightly, a smile gracing his features. 

“Do have a good day Ms. Riley. Ta-ta.”

He stepped back and elegantly gestured down the hallway to dismiss her, pleasant smile still on his face.

A slow smile spread across her face as she watched Sherlock’s theatrics. “You’ve lost a step,” she said gleefully, not at all in any hurry to leave. “Publishers are so very pre-2010. All you need is a decent blog and tasty gossip, the masses could hardly be bothered with _fact_. If you’ve learned nothing since that dramatic scene in front of your poor boyfriend -and you call _me_ a maniac- it should have been that. We knew “Richard” didn’t exist, and oh, we didn’t care, love.” 

She reached out and brushed a bit of lint off Sherlock’s bicep. “Now, I have this just _riveting_ audio from one D.I. Lestrade’s squad car, do you have an idea what could be on it?” She asked, smiling sweetly at him. 

Sherlock held his expression and grudgingly offered her an arm. “What do you want, Kitty? The only audio that could possibly be there is when we took him to the hospital. Don’t play games with me... and don’t underestimate me. You did it once before. If you want to go after me again, fine. Have a go. But a war hero? That’s low, even for you.”

Sherlock’s mind raced through the events of the night in question. He was quite sure the only audio would have been the ride to the hospital.

She gleefully clung to his arm, leaning against him as they walked through the hospital. “That’s what makes the money, dear. All that crawls up or drags through the muck. What I want is full, exclusive interview rights with you and John regarding the Great Return of Sherlock Holmes. Give me that, and we leave out the little details of John taking our DI hostage and your little altercation with your brother here. I can publish with or without you, but I’ve got to say, it would be much better for you if you didn’t take the same road as last time and simply granted me the interview. Either way, I win, so really this is just an olive branch for you and sweet John.”

Sherlock watched her for a moment and then smiled broadly. “I’ll have Mycroft send contracts to you. You pay us or no interview. I control when and where and for how long. You can attempt to publish without us... but I doubt you’ll get very far.” He leaned and kissed her cheek briefly before letting her arm go. “Mycroft will know how to reach you. Do we have an accord?”

Sherlock would control this one way or another. Even if it meant having Ms. Riley swept under a rug somewhere. Parts of him were forever changed and that was written across his face as he spoke to her. His voice was soft as he added gently, “I died to protect John, you’d do to remember that.”

She took a step back and dropped the act, pulling her mobile from her bag. “I danced with James Moriarty for months. Let me warn you now, Mr. Holmes, of my insurance policies. If I go missing for more than twelve hours time, I have a wealth of information that will automatically trigger into the great wide web, not even your big brother can control information once the internet has it. You do realize the charges for aggravated kidnapping, armed assault, threatened bodily harm, grand theft auto...we can go on and on. If it’s public, Mycroft will be hard pressed to save him. You stick to your end, I stick to mine. Threaten me again, and we are done.”

She glared at him, dropping her mobile back into her bag. “As you said, big brother knows where to find me.”

With that, she turned to leave, a thin smile on her lips as she began to walk away.

He actually grinned as he watched her go, “How many times Kitty?” he called after her, knowing she wouldn’t be able to resist asking what he was talking about.

She paused and tightened her jaw, turning back to him slowly with her mask in place. “Hmm?”

He smiled serenely at her, “How many times did he say _Sherlock_ when it should have been Kitty?” His name was an eerily close match to Jim’s voice, in tones he knew the man would have sounded like in bed.

She absorbed that for a moment, her face faltering for a second before the mask was firmly back in place. She turned around to leave again, taking a few more steps before calling over her shoulder, “Not nearly as often as he cried out _John_.”

\---

Mark was just in the process of pushing John back into his room, face grim, leaving him in the company of a supervising nurse before dropping down in the chair just outside the door, waiting for Sherlock to show back up. 

Sherlock smirked at Kitty’s retreating back and turned on his heel, heading back towards the room. He frowned as he saw Mark sitting outside the room, walking swiftly over to him. He crouched beside him, looking up into his face when he reached his side. “What is it?”

Mark took a deep, slow breath. “First, we do _not_ move John again without you in company and some damned heavy sedatives on board, no matter how heavily he makes us think he’s sleeping,” he replied, shaking his head, “That man can give hell.”

He stood up and walked over to the nearby desk, picking up his chart. “So most of the bleeds have resolved. There is still swelling, but nothing active is going on, which is a marked improvement from the last time we looked. The issue now is that there isn’t a clear-cut reason for the language confusion. The rest of it is perfectly textbook, but the language...I just don’t know, Sherlock. The swelling there has nearly resolved. He may need a specialist if this doesn’t clear up soon. Overall good news, though.”

He gestured towards John’s room, “He’s restrained again, we had no choice. He became incredibly violent, managed to get completely off the table. I’m sorry, that’s my fault, I shouldn’t have underestimated him like that. He’s off it again, doesn’t seem to know what’s on.”

Sherlock listened carefully and nodded. “Well, that would be the soldier in him,” he said affectionately. “I’ll duck in, see if he’ll come around or at least talk to me, see where his head is,” Sherlock sighed, hating that John was reduced to this. He so desperately wanted him better. The desire was borne from concern for John, not himself. 

He ducked back into the room, nodding to a male nurse keeping an eye on John, and spoke gently, Pashto again for John, “Doctor Watson, can you tell me where you think you are?” He observed John’s posture, sad to see the tense soldier back.

John slowly pulled his eyes away from the male who’d been left to watch him, directing his focus to the first person to speak properly since he’d come awake. His racing heart was the only betrayer of his acute fear as he glared hard at this new figure. 

He took his time, making a show of sizing the man up, fists curled tight, body coiled. _Where did he think he was_? He said nothing, holding his tongue as he stared the man down, making it abundantly clear he wasn’t getting fuck all from John Watson. 

 

Sherlock smiled and tilted his head, “Okay. You see this?” he pointed to the fading bruise, “And this?” the more vibrantly colored one this time. “I’m aware of your ability to throw a punch. I see your firsts, I know you desire to defend yourself. However, you are not in Afghanistan any longer. You’re in London, in hospital. St. Bartholomew's to be precise.” 

His voice was soft as he stepped to the side of the bed, away from John, non-threatening as he sat in the bedside chair. His cot was folded and rolled to the side. “I’m just going to sit over here and keep you company. Unfortunately no one else here can understand you. You’re stuck with me as a translator.”

Sherlock reclined slightly, the mask of normal everyday Sherlock in place.

John watched him carefully, eyes flitting from the Pashto speaker to the other man, before cutting to the door and back. 

“You have me bound, why are you lying to me?” he hissed at last, head spinning, dizzy. “Do you think I didn’t see your photographer? You lot filmed me in the caves, you’re filming now. I’m not telling you anything, so you may as well have over and done with it.”

Sherlock couldn’t help himself, “Oh, don’t be an idiot, John...” He took a breath and shook his head. “It was an MRI, you’ve suffered a brain injury. We’re in hospital, you’re not in a cave. You’re bound because you keep trying to hurt yourself and other people. When you come back around, and you will, we’ll see about letting you out again for a while.”

John stared at him and then barked a hollow, empty laugh. “MRI scans come attached to cell phones in the hands of short brunettes now? Fascinating.”

He pulled at his wrist and then looked away, back to the door, trying to put it all together. He _had_ been in an MRI, hadn’t he? But then...he swore under his breath as the fog took his memory away. He kept his face turned away from the men watching him, exhausted and in pain. 

Sherlock snapped out his phone and dialed Mycroft, who actually answered, “Kitty’s got cell phone footage of John here somehow.... I don’t know Mycroft! I sent you the message when I ran into her... No, I don’t know. She claims she has all the info on John’s escapade and will make it public knowledge... Just deal with it better than you dealt with getting him home!”

He slammed the cell phone back in his pocket and snapped at the nurse to get out and leave them alone. He looked at John for a few moments before speaking in gentler tones, 

“The woman won’t bother you again. Now, try to rest? I’ll be here if you need anything.” 

John relaxed his posture, just giving it up as he sank back in the bed. He couldn’t fight like this, there was no point holding so tense. He let his eyes fall closed as he listened to his own breathing. 

“Knew a man who looked like you,” he breathed, English laced with a heavy accent, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips. “A world away from here. Going to see him again once you clowns finally decide to put a fucking round in me.”

He was off to sleep after that, sinking down into the blankets, fingers curled around the tethers of his restraints. 

Sherlock flinched, the words landing heavy. He scrubbed a hand over his face and got to his feet, walking over to the folded Belstaff and gently draped it over John. He stepped back out in the hall and looked for Mark, rubbing a hand across his face as he cracked his neck. This would get better, it had to.

He caught the eye of the nurse and she held up a finger, indicating Mark was in another room. Sherlock stayed, leaning in the doorway so that John could see him should he wake, waiting on Mark.

Mark was drying his hands as he came back into the hall, glad to not hear anything from Watson’s room. Jesus, the drama. He looked to the nurses station and saw that Sherlock was waiting for him. He pitched the towel in the bin and headed his way, brow arched. 

“How’d that go?”

Sherlock sighed and nodded to him. “As well as could be expected... Right before he fell asleep though he said, ‘Knew a man who looked like you once, going to get to see him once you clowns finally decide to put a fucking round in me.’ Still thinks I’m dead this time around. Convinced we’re going to kill him. The brain trauma... this is intense.” Sherlock shook his head a bit. “Did speak English for a moment, heavily accented though.”

 

“Sherlock,” he said gently, pulling him a bit more to the side, out of the hall and to a nook beside the nurse’s station, “listen,” Mark cleared his throat and looked to John’s room for a moment, “He has impressive brain trauma, and this is a scattered bit of retroactive amnesia, which is perfectly expected. I just want to broach this with you early in the game, okay? I have no evidence of this other than his history, but John has a _marked_ issue with PTSD that dates back to his first deployment. I cannot help but wonder if that’s playing a bigger part than we are looking at at moment. Not that anything can really be addressed until the trauma resolves internally...I just, you need to be aware of this. For him and for _yourself_. Don’t think I’ve failed to notice that tremor in your hands that never calms down.”

He cleared his throat and watched Sherlock for a few moments. “I understand the nature of your last year may preclude you from seeking professional help. The good thing here is that you’ve John, and you _will_ have him back. He will come out of this, his mind needs a chance to heal. I would just like to encourage you to keep talking to him when you can. I don’t want to see you in that bed a year from now.”

Sherlock looked at his hands and back up to Mark, eyes narrowing slightly before he tried to relax his posture, bristling at what felt like accusations of being unfit to care for John. Mostly because he _was_ unfit to care for John. He worked his jaw for a moment before sighing, “I’m trying...”

He shifted uneasily and scrubbed a hand over his face, “I am, I’m trying... Some twit got in here with a cell phone, by the way. Kitty Riley, reporter... She’s filmed him, I’m sure of it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s the one who did the big expose’ on me... Fake Genius.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She’s threatening John.”

Mark set his jaw and reached out, wrapping a firm hand around Sherlock’s bicep. “Hey, you misunderstand me. I think you’re doing a fucking stellar job of helping John, to be frank. Most people walk out, they do, believe me. They can’t take it, even half of what John is dishing to you, intentional or not. I know your type, I know you will run yourself into the ground to take care of him. You’re still _my patient_ as well, and I am trying to take care of you, that’s all.”

He stared at him, dropping his eyes to Sherlock’s hands before taking a deep breath, “I yelled at the woman, I saw her, she was calling out to John. I didn’t think she managed to film him though. I’m sorry, Sherlock, John was...very rapidly out of sorts when we started moving him. It was chaotic. What she had time to film...if she published that, it would only serve to make herself look terrible.”

He let Sherlock go and took a half step back. “I’m putting in a request to have you and John moved to a more private area, there is just too much foot traffic down here. Is that acceptable?”

Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath, “Yeah, that’s good, better... I just. _Christ_ , Mark. This is, I’ve never felt this way about anyone and I...leaving him alone to deal with this isn’t an option... but this hurts. I don’t like it, at all. It’s.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve gone through life purposefully not feeling this way because I didn’t want to and had no need for it. Why do you lot do this to yourselves?”

He was cross at the world at the moment, his words biting, trembling as his medicine had gone forgotten again.

“Come on,” he said gently, walking Sherlock back into John’s room. He pointed to the same chair Sherlock had been in earlier when John gave up, collecting the bottle, tipping a pill into his hand and offering it to Sherlock before fetching a glass of water from the table. 

“We...I could put him back down, if you like. I don’t really, I’m not a big fan of that idea, but we could just keep him under a few more days, Sherlock. Try again after more of the swelling has gone down?” 

“No, absolutely not, not unless he becomes completely unhinged and is going to harm himself. That will only slow the process. Though we’ve got to try to get him sleeping more somehow. This staying awake nonsense... It can’t keep happening. I know he doesn’t want to forget me...”

He huffed and took the pill, keeping hold of the glass, “Sorry, you’re not a therapist. I’ve been putting you through the wringer unintentionally, normally I actively try to antagonize people... as my jaw can attest....” It was genuine, he was actually sorry he’d been such a pain in Mark’s ass while he took care of John and tried to take care of Sherlock.

“I haven’t got a prayer of talking to anyone professional, the only other person who vaguely understands me is my pompous arse of a brother... and John. John’s quite scrambled at the moment.”

Mark waved a dismissive hand, glad he’d shut the door behind him, folding into a chair at Sherlock's side. John was awake, he’d noted as he plucked the water from the table, doing a stellar job at feigning sleep. Sherlock clearly had not noticed. 

“It’s part of the job, Sherlock. I’d rather you talk to me than let it go unsaid and chew on it alone. The sleep will come, it will. I can’t give him a sleeping aid with a brain injury. What we do here is keep you on your meds, keep you fed, and wait for John’s brain to stop attacking him. I will do my best to keep the rest out of the way, I will. All I want from you is continued honesty. If this is too much, and you need to leave for a while, you have to tell me, okay? I don’t want you _both_ cracking. Just...let me help where I can.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath, “I can’t leave him... but, if something is happening and I can’t handle it, I’ll tell you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face slowly. “I just, he...” He huffed softly. “I intend on seeing him through this, period. John means more to me than...I will see him through this” 

He closed his eyes for a moment as he spoke, “He’ll get better... this is John. He’s stronger than anyone.”

John kept his eyes closed, his breathing steady and deep as he listened, broken halves of phrases slipping through the cracked filters in his mind. He waited until the room was quiet again to entertain sleep, milling on the information that had got through. 

Mark reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m going to find you a proper dinner, okay? Just relax for a while,” he said before cutting his eyes to John, setting his jaw and sighing. “Page me directly if you need anything, I’ll be back soon.”

John flinched a bit as the door closed before taking a deep breath. “You’re Sherlock,” he whispered, keeping his eyes closed. “And I’m...addled.” 

Sherlock looked over to John, a fond smile on his lips before he laughed softly, surprised John had been able to feign sleep on him. “Brilliant deduction,” he drawled softly, his tone fond and warm. He stood and crossed to the side of the bed, fingertips trailing against John’s arm. “Hello, John.”

He chewed on his lip and reached back with his foot, hooking the chair closer, sitting down again so his face was more level with John’s, chin resting on the rail. “How are you feeling this time around?”

John cracked his eyes open, studying Sherlock’s face. He was silent for awhile, trying to put it together. 

“You’re letting me do a number on you,” he murmured; English, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I wish you wouldn’t let me do this. I don’t intend to, but,” his eyes touched to the bruising on Sherlock’s chin before looking back at his eyes, “I am.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment before speaking, “I provoked you, intentionally... Beyond that, I love you, there is nothing that will keep me from your side as long as I am bodily able to be here.” His hand snaked through and wrapped his fingers around John’s fingers.

“We both have narrowly avoided entirely too many traumas, potentially deadly combat, and idiotic people to be torn apart now. I refuse to lose you, refuse to let all of this just... go. I just refuse, period.”

John loosely held Sherlock’s hand, exhausted, wishing he could cling a bit longer and remember. “Have I been lucid? Remembered what’s happened at all? Please tell me you’re eating and... god I watched you fall off the roof and now you’re holding my hand. I get that there are gaps. I just...you look,” He studied Sherlock’s overly pale face, the exhaustion at his eyes, the way his body seemed to turn in on itself. He looked... “ _horrible_. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock smiled gently at that, shaking his head as he softly answered. “Mark’s gone off to find me a proper dinner... Thanks, by the way, really I’m flattered.” He squeezed John’s hand and pressed on. “I’m eating. I, yes gaps. Large ones. You have been lucid. Brain injury, it’s healing.” he smiled gently. “You’re with us more often than you’re not, well at least making that turn. I will not be leaving you” Sherlock went quiet for a moment before asking after John, “So, pain?”

“I love you too,” John whispered, shifting in the bed, rolling his wrists but not struggling. “Have we sorted that yet?”

Sherlock exhaled sharply and curled his fingers around John’s again, “Gods yes.” He let his forehead rest on the railing, “You’re missing so much I didn’t... I thought it might be too much to tell you just now. I’ve said too much several times... set you off before. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, John, simply my best. I know you cannot help this, but gods help me if it is not impossibly difficult at times.”

He looked back up at John and rested his chin on the rail again.

John’s face fell slightly in concern for Sherlock. He closed his eyes and hummed as he thought, floating in this current off state. He felt both asleep and remarkably lucid, as through disconnected from the situation, looking in and observing. His medical mind supplied an explanation he could not grasp and he shook his head slightly, licking his lips. He opened his eyes calmly and looked over to Sherlock, wanting very much to help the man, to reassure him and settle him as well as he was able. It was incredible that Sherlock was doing all of this for him. He spoke very frankly, able to do so without reservation from his own disconnect. 

“Well...unless I’ve changed quite a bit, you just being right here is perfect. How much have we sorted how we feel about one another?”

tenuous for us. Well, more than a bit really. You’ve kissed me _and_ landed a few impressive blow, both... I’ve kissed you and threatened you, both. Really, sort of normal for us when I think about it. Your head injury and my, my... well. I.” Sherlock clamped down on that, jaw working as he refused to bring up his spiral into drug usage again.

“It’s complicated, or has been. We’ve admitted love for the other without discussing it further.”  
John cracked a smile as Sherlock explained their situation in thin detail. His eyes slipped closed and he hummed for a moment, his thumb sliding calmly along Sherlock’s knuckles in an effort to comfort him. John knew the body he was in was restrained, but it did not bother him in the slightest. This wasn’t his body, after all. 

“Well, I can speak for John here,” he cracked a smile at his own joke, enjoying the disconnect, “being whatever addled part of him I am. It’s not complicated. I’ve been your partner for years and years. When you fell...that last week after...I would have sold my soul to have even a minute with you. I knew too late that I desperately love you. And if-i’ve told you before I went sideways that I love you...” he hummed warmly, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers, “It’s not complicated. Don’t leave me hanging, don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

Sherlock watched John for a moment before he was moving, leaning over the rail to press a soft kiss to his lips, fingers squeezing around John’s as he did. He was gentle, just brushing against him really, before he was leaning back and looking down at John, “I love you, no matter what shape you’re in, no matter where you are, and no matter how much we annoy and provoke one another. I have for a long time now...”

John hummed at him, having leaned into the kiss, his vitals as calm as they’d been since being admitted. He held Sherlock’s hand and kept his eyes closed, floating in a haze. “I think I’m gonna sleep soon. Should think of making lucid me record a message to,” he tugged at his restraints with a smirk, “asshat me, might help, dunno. I’m gonna figure out how to get out of here. Please be okay, I am so incredibly in love with you. I need you to please be okay.”

“You are brilliant... sleep though, we’ll record it next time you come round. I’ll be ok, my love.” Sherlock took a moment to think on what John had said. “Asshat you, amusing. I hope you’re still you when you come back around, but if you aren’t I’ll work with you til you are.” He kissed John’s forehead tenderly and sat back down in the chair, not letting go of his hand. He once again rested his chin on the rail and just watched John.

John was quiet for a while, nearly asleep when he mumbled to him, “Mark’s right y-know. Gotta talk about the things,” he whispered, just as he fell soft and easy down into sleep, fingers curled around Sherlock’s, finally resting. 

Mark was back in a few minutes later with bags of carry out, nothing from the hospital. He offered one to Sherlock, setting it on the table beside him as he looked down at John. “He finally let you know he was awake,” he said softly with a touch of amusement. He had known that John was awake for most of their conversation. He shook his head as he settled down with his own food.

“Mm, surprised he kept it from me. I must be tired... He was lucid, only remembers the fall though.” Sherlock laughed softly, “Told me he loved me too, asked if we’d sorted that yet. He had an idea, about recording himself talking and I quote, ‘from lucid-me to asshat-me’ while rattling the restraints a bit.” 

He took in a breath, smelling the takeout, “Real food... Gods, thank you. I’d could kiss you... but I think your wife and my John would take issue. You will have to be satisfied with a verbal show of gratitude, I’m afraid.” Slowly but surely normal Sherlock was peeking out.

Mark laughed at that, smirking at John’s quip towards himself. “I think I’ll like him when he wakes up properly,” he said with a smile, watching happily as Sherlock tucked into his food. They just needed to offer him better things to eat. “We’ve got a room to move you pair to as well, but I think that should wait until he’s lucid, if possible. We panicked him and he’s clearly sensitive to being filmed. I’m concerned anyone in the hall with a mobile is going to set him off. So, we will wait. Maybe in the morning.”

He looked up at John’s monitors, nodding happily as he chewed his food. “That looks good, better than I’ve seen it yet.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. He was... well he was _John_ , this time around. I can’t explain it more than that. He’s easy to like... obvious, if he can make _me_ like him, love him even. You didn’t know him from the hospital before?”

Sherlock was truly enjoying the food. He’d been half starved for months and then the hospital food was wholly unappetizing. Though he’d been amused by the jam sandwich. He sighed softly, somewhere between tired and elated from the recent conversation with John, a bit of hope restored and his concerns about the nature of their relationship somewhat settled for now.

Mark shook his head. “Worked with him on a few trauma cases, but not personally, no. Nursing staff likes him, good patient rep, overall seems like a good guy. I’m glad you had a little time with _him_ for a while, at least. He’s in there, he just...that’s a lot of shit to wade through, honestly.”

He finished his meal before Sherlock, accustomed to eating very fast when he could, cleaning up and scrubbing his hands before slipping on a pair of gloves. “Gonna look at him while he’s sleeping,” he explained before going through the motions of examining his patient, finishing up with checking the restraints. 

“I know it’s a bit early, but I’m going to instruct you like I do mothers for now. You should be sleeping when he’s sleeping, if you can.”

Sherlock agreed and, once he finished up his food, stretched out on the cot Mark had reassembled for him, resting beside John. The two of them actually sleeping for a long while. John woke somewhere in the early morning hours shouting to be let out in Pashto. Sherlock had calmed him, though John never recognized him that time around. He’d eventually fallen back asleep and Sherlock had napped. John came to later in the morning sullen and grumpy, not recognizing anyone for a bit, but speaking English. They were finally able to move him when he started realizing Sherlock was Sherlock and that he was at St. Barts.

After they were in the new room, Sherlock recorded a greeting from John, to John, in both Pashto and English. He hoped it would help next time around. Sherlock settled into the room, his clothes moved to it, a more comfortable bedding alternative in there. John was asleep again and Sherlock was dozing. 

Sherlock dreamt, good dreams for the first time in a long time, completely missing Mark coming by to observe the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the delay everyone!


	17. Chapter 17

Mark slipped in quietly, sweeping his eyes over the pair of them; John tethered to his bed, Sherlock propped at his side head pillowed on arms folded over John’s mattress. He took up a chair at the far end of the room, in clear view of John’s face and the monitors at the man’s back, and simply observed. 

He’d had a call from Mycroft, the content of which had been...quite unsettling. He drew his attention over to Sherlock, trying to measure the man with what he knew now, what he’d been advised to do. Mycroft had been adamant. Mark had given as good as he got, but this was _Mycroft Holmes_ and when he decided something would happen, well, it literally took an act of the Queen to stop it. 

He pulled out his phone and sent one more desperate plea to the man, one more effort before he’d put his career on the line to stop this. 

I implore you, this is the worst idea for the both of them. Do not do this. -MW

He sighed and then sent out another message, this time to Greg. 

May need your help, trouble with Mycroft brewing. -MW

Sherlock stirred as a message came through on Mark’s phone.

What’s the prat up to now? - GL

Sherlock sat up, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and yawned as he looked around, his eyes falling on Mark, taking in his agitated appearance. “What’s happened? Has John taken a turn for the worse?” His voice was soft and he looked over at John somewhat frantically, only to find him still sleeping. He looked back to mark in confusion.

“Mark?”

Mark shook his head, whispering back, “No, no, John’s not changed, no,” he assured swiftly. He stood up and walked over to Sherlock, offering him another pill before handing him a bottle of water. “Take that, and then I’ll fill you in. I’m working on it, nothing to do with John’s condition directly.”

He looked back at his mobile, returning Greg’s text. 

Wants to separate these two, ultimately, long story. May need your help. -MW

Sherlock arched a brow but took the pill. He downed half the bottle of water, not realizing he’d been that thirsty, “Alright then...” Sherlock moved and went to the lav.

Meanwhile Greg read the text and shot one back.

Is he bloody off his nut!? Sherlock will kill him and I’m not sure I’m exaggerating... - GL

Sherlock returned after a few moments, hair combed, looking refreshed. He cleared the blanket and pillow from the recliner he’d been in and looked at Mark. He steepled his hands under his chin. “Alright, out with it. What’s going on?”

Mark pulled up a chair directly beside Sherlock and settled into it with a sigh. “You won’t want to, but please try and be calm after I say this. We are all working to stop this happening, and if you go on a rampage, that’s not going to have a good outcome.”

He scrubbed a tired hand down his face and took a deep breath. “Mycroft has processed several official requests through the heads of my department. A transfer for John to a different center which specializes in neurological and psychological trauma,” he looked up at John to ensure the man was still sleeping, “and a request for involuntary admission to our psychiatric unit for you.”

Sherlock froze as icy dread dripped down over him. The last time Mycroft had him committed he’d nearly lost his mind in the most literal sense. His mobile was out and in his hand in the next second, dialing a number had hadn’t used in many, many years. He listened to the voice on the other end of the phone and said one sentence. “You know what he’s doing then?” He listened for a moment more and then clicked killed the line. His jaw worked as he looked at the wall.

“You can transfer John, if you think it would help.” There was a twitch in his face, right eye almost winking. “But I will not, cannot be kept. I will lose my mind. In fact, Mycroft is probably counting on it... I’ve expected things from him in retaliation for breaking his nose. But this, oh this is too much, even for him.”

Sherlock finally met Mark’s eye. “If you can’t stop it, you have to warn me, let me go to ground. I will not be committed. I can’t, Mark, you don’t understand, the drugs they had me on, the things they had me doing, the mundane things... I couldn’t even read, they wouldn’t let me _read._ Mycroft assured them it was dangerous to let me escape into books.”

Sherlock was shaking, halfway between terrified and raging. He couldn’t let the anger win or he knew Mycroft would definitely get his way then.

Mark shook his head, “Um, no. This is obviously retaliation for you putting his nose out of alignment. If I thought you were mentally unsound, I would not leave you in the company of a traumatized war veteran. I’ve put in every official word I can, along with every member of the staff on this floor that carries any weight. I’ve had a word with the head of the Psych department as well. However, this is _Mycroft_ we are talking about here. He gets what he wants.”

He looked over to John and set his jaw, shaking his head, “This is the superior facility for him. He’s not questioning that. I have privileges at the Neuro Center where he wants me to transfer with him. This is...I am loath to say it Sherlock but I can’t see this as anything other than an effort to separate the pair of you, cloaked in false efforts of kindness and concern.”

Sherlock nodded as he pulled his phone up once again started to dial Mycroft and stopped. He stared at it. What could he even say? This was going to be the final straw if Mycroft succeeded. He’d never speak to him again, he might even harm him. He set the phone down in his lap.

“I don’t know what I did to make him hate me with such intensity...”

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair before burying his face in his hands. Mycroft intended to make him run. He sat back up suddenly. “He intended to drive me to ground. He knows I’ll go under. He has no intention of transferring John... He’s after me.”

Mark shook his head and looked from Sherlock to John. “What can we do? I’ve got Lestrade on alert, and I’ve worked my channels here. Do you have ideas? He may be after you, but he will leave a fair bit of collateral in his wake,” he whispered, furious with this idiotic rivalry. “Surely if you just spoke with him?”

Sherlock smiled slowly as he finally hit began to ring his brother, putting the device on speaker so that Mark could hear.

“Hello little brother. Enjoying your new room?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Cut it Mycroft, why the posturing?”

“I’m only doing what I think is best for you both.” Mycroft sounded bored and Sherlock’s jaw worked.

“Every doctor is against it... If you do not back off, expect a phone call. You know from whom... Don’t make me call it in.”

Mycroft’s voice dropped, the act gone, “I’ll make your life miserable, Sherlock... Don’t you dare involve her in this.”

“Then don’t meddle in medical matters because you’re pissed I broke your nose. Tell me how much the surgeon’s going to cost to fix it and I’ll pay for it. Stop this nonsense...” Sherlock was huffy, and Mark marveled at the display between the pair, they really were children having a spat on an epic level.

“We’ll see... behave yourself and I’ll think about calling it off.”

Sherlock growled, “Call it off or I call her _again_.”

“You’ve already called her!?” Mycroft was seething.

“Called and she said she already knew what you were up to. Told me to try to handle it on my own first. So yes, Mycroft, I already called, only to make sure she was aware of your horrible game. You think you can hide things from her?”

Mycroft huffed, “I’ll call the doctor later then...”

Sherlock smiled widely, “Which one?”

“The one in charge of you two blithering idiots!”

Sherlock just smiled over at Mark and arched a brow as if to ask if he wanted to jump in...

Mark was _seething._

“Right here, Mr. Holmes. I do hope you’ve altered your ideas, pure as your intentions were. They seem to be doing very well in new accommodations without as much _interference._ ”

He flicked his eyes to John, concerned they’d wake him in the middle of all this upset. 

Mycroft sighed heavily, “I suppose you’ve had me on speaker the entire time... Damn it Sherlock! Consider the paperwork withdrawn.” the sound of a phone slamming down to the cradle was unmistakable just before the line went dead.

Sherlock smiled softly. “He never was any good at chess... I could always outmaneuver him. Threatened him with the Queen, no, not that one... He’ll try something different though, if we don’t keep a careful eye out.”

Sherlock was still shaking, wanting nothing more than to kill his elder brother for this unnecessary stress.

“I don’t suppose it matters to your brother that you’ve all John has. No mother, no father, a sister with no points of contact, no other living family. He’s alone, if not for you. Or does it simply not matter to a man like Mycroft Holmes?” Mark asked, his tone sharp and angry. 

He looked back to the sleeping man, glad he’d rested through that. “He gave that up rather easily.”

“Mmhmm, which means he’s got something else up his sleeve. He’s terrified of _her_ ,though. But hopefully he’ll not try anything again for a week or two... but you’ve got to keep an eye on things paperwork wise. He’ll send his personal physician over here and have me drugged in a blink of an eye... it’s how he had me locked up the first time. Purposefully drugged me to make me go crazy.”

Sherlock winced at the memory, “It took weeks to get me out. I’d nearly ost myself by the time I was freed.”

He took in a deep breath, “Thank you, for not trusting him this time.”

Mark nodded and dragged a hand down his face. “I’d rather not know the _her_ that terrifies your brother. I only trusted him the first time because I did not know you. This...this behavior from him is both unacceptable and _dangerous._ We are just now stabilizing the pair of you. You’re functioning and he...well...every day shows more and more promise. To transfer him while he still doubts where he is, still forgets...” he shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. 

“Mycroft will be hard-pressed to make anything official happen here, and I’ll do my best to warn you. He’s dangerous to John, Sherlock. This has to stop.”

He looked over at John once more before shaking his head and adding, “I will come check on you lot soon,” before heading back out, leaving the men to themselves. 

Sherlock smiled softly to himself. He drew his feet up into the chair and watched John, waiting to see if he’d wake any time soon. He was one up on Mycroft at the moment... but he’d likely need to go make a formal apology, in person, soon.

He hummed softly to himself, fingers itching for his violin. He wondered if he could get Greg to bring it... and if they’d let him play in hospital. He supposed he could go to the roof, but John probably wouldn’t handle that well.

John, for his part, had learned well to hide awareness. Things went silent for a long, long while before he dared to speak to Sherlock. 

“If you go to ground, you have to take me with you,” he tried to say steadily, his voice cracking on him as fear betrayed him, the icy tendrils having wrapped around his heart at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. “I can’t...can’t do that again, can’t.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he looked at John. “Damn, but I wish you didn’t know how to fake me out...” He was to the side of the bed and looking down at John. “You’ve got to stay in hospital. I don’t know how to take care of you... but Mycroft will back off for now, I think. You’re lucid... What do you know?”

“ _Everything_ ,” John breathed, feeling like he was drowning. “I’m at Bart’s. We’re in London. I’ve been forgetting. Tried to kill Greg. Pashto. Jesus fucking _Christ_ I can’t...you can’t l-leave me Sherlock I- please you have to take me with you no one will have me _please_ I can’t.” 

He was spiraling fast, like coming up from being underwater far too long, all of it in an overwhelming rush with the looming threat of Sherlock vanishing on him again because a man he’d been foolish enough to label ‘friend’ had the pride of a five year old. 

“Whoa, whoa, Christ John, calm down. I’m not going anywhere... I won’t. Breathe.” He leaned down and kissed John, at a loss of what else to do to shut him up and calm him down, he flailed for the nurse button, wanting Mark back in here. He wanted John out of the fucking restraints.

He whispered against John’s lips, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He turned his head to snap for Mark to come back when the nurse came on before kissing John again softly.

Mark came back at a full run, only having heard that there’d been a frantic call from Sherlock. He skid around the corner and pushed into the room, John’s monitors on the fritz, panicked breaths shattering over and baritone words. He pushed the door shut behind him as he came in. “What’s happened?” he asked, going to John’s side. 

John was grabbing at any part of Sherlock his narrow reach would allow, babbling in English and Pashto, though he was at full faculty, openly, pathetically in full-blown, unbridled panic. 

“I’m getting him out of these bloody restraints. He heard everything, Mark, he was awake, the git... he was awake the whole time. He remembers everything. He thinks I’m going to leave him, it’s a bloody panic attack.”

Sherlock was already undoing one wrist and dropping the side of the bed, Bodily shoving John over as gently as he could even as he gathered him into his arms, “Just get the other bloody wrist cuff.”

Mark nearly argued that it was impossible that John had been awake, but of course, this would all prove otherwise. John was tethered to one side of the bed, his arm pulled back awkwardly as he pressed against Sherlock, hardly breathing with his shallow, swift efforts. . 

Mark swore and slipped the buckle free, watching as John snatched his hand away, gripping to Sherlock like he was trying to stop him falling off a cliff. 

“John, you’ve got to slow your breathing down,” Mark called out, slipping fingers to his neck.

John was lost to them for now, awash in a wellspring of memory, playing out in merciless detail, threatening to knock him clean out as he gasped for air and clung messy to Sherlock, his face dripping with tears, teeth clenched hard against the onslaught. 

“John, come on, slow down I don’t want to sedate you, slow down.”

Sherlock whispered against John’s ear, softly, “I’ve got you, I love you. Mycroft can’t hurt us, I’m not going anywhere and everyone cares about you and has been asking after you. Please breathe slowly my love.” He shifted, pulling himself further into the bed, settling John across his lap, cradling him gently.

“Come on, John, breathe for me... Just breathe slowly.”

John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s shirt, trying to follow instructions, pulling at the air as slowly as he could before a fresh wash of imagery had him crumpling in on himself. “Oh gods Sherlock her _face,_ ” he groaned as he remembered how severely he’d frightened Mrs. Hudson, suddenly afraid he’d be sick. “I can’t breathe,” he panted, struggling to sit up, stars cracking long his vision as the room pitched, his position on his back making him feel like he was falling. 

Mark frowned and ducked out of the room, rushing off to get a decent sedative. 

Sherlock righted John gently, letting him tuck against him if he wanted, the two of them sitting up, John mostly in Sherlock’s lap, “John focus, in through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, follow me.” Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, trying to get John to follow him. 

He tried, one fist tangled tight in Sherlock’s shirt, curled over his own lap, gasping at the air. He managed a few slow breaths before breaking out into desperate panting again, only to regain the narrow handle on himself again, breathing slower by the time Mark made it back in with meds. 

He held out a shaking hand to stop Mark from injecting him, very much repelled at the idea of being drugged, turning his face to Sherlock’s chest as he finally began to get a handle on his breathing, his respirations hitching on silent sobs, horrified by what he remembered. “Greg...oh god tell me I didn’t hurt Greg.”

“You did not hurt Greg, he’s been by several times to see us... to see you. He knows you didn’t have any idea what was going on. You didn’t hurt anyone, John.” He kissed his head gently, “Everyone is safe and no one holds anything against you.”

He rocked John ever so slightly as they sat there. “Everyone just wants you to get better.”

Mark hung by close, watching John very carefully. John grit his teeth at Sherlock’s words, clamping down on his thoughts. He forced himself to breathe, just holding on to Sherlock, no idea where to even begin. “I want out of here.”

Sherlock looked up at Mark in alarm, there was no way he was fielding this one alone. He’d take John home in a heartbeat if he was well enough, but he had no clue about any of this. He kissed the top of John’s head gently. His words were measured, soft, “We have to wait for medical clearance. I’m in over my head John, if they say you can go home, I’ll take you home, but until then I will stay by your side...”

“Until your brother frightens you away!” John hadn’t meant to shout, curling a fist and pressing it to his mouth as he shivered hard in Sherlock’s lap. “I forget and I hurt people and- damn it I should be the one fucking running, Sherlock. I want to _leave_!”

Sherlock winced away as though struck when John shouted at him, regaining himself and curling the man close to him again, “I am not leaving you. I don’t give a damn what Mycroft threatens me with. I love you and I will not abandon you. I was _terrified._ You have no idea what that man put me through last time. I only got out of it by threatening him with our _Mother_...” Sherlock was near growling with memory stirred back to life.

Mark watched the pair of them with a growing sense of dread. Jesus. One of them was bad enough, the pair of them were impossible. 

“Okay, okay, both of you calm down. John, I’m asking your permission to give you a _minor_ sedative, this is for the electrical activity in your brain, not to treat you like a psych patient. Sherlock. I can give you one as well. Good night the pair of you are not understanding the other. Calm down, before I put you at opposite ends, yeah?”

Sherlock huffed before speaking, “Please, for me... I’m about to shake out of my skin,” he finally admitted.

Sherlock clamped down on his tongue after that, unwilling to say anything else at the moment, glaring out at the wall, but still holding John gently.

John was utterly shocked at Sherlock’s admission, biting his lip and looking down at his lap, nodding his agreement. “O-okay, yeah, alright,” he whispered, going so far as to hold his hand out to Mark, offering his line. 

Mark dosed John first, watching as he went lax and lazy against Sherlock, before handing Sherlock another pill of higher dose. 

“Twenty minutes before either of you get going on hard topics or so help me I’ll knock you both out.”

To make good, Mark went and dropped himself into a chair and checked his watch, crossing his arms as he watched the men. 

Sherlock popped the pill dry and cuddled the relaxed John to him, jealous for a moment that John’s was almost instantaneous. He was still shaking, taking comfort in burying his face against John’s shoulder. “I love you, you bleeding idiot.” he finally said as they sat there.

John smiled at that, a brief flash before he reached his hand back and sank his fingers into Sherlock’s curls. He ran the pads of his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp, leaning back against him, knowing he’d put Sherlock in that state and logging the guilt for when he could properly feel it. 

“I didn’t mean it as an insult, earlier, I love you.”  
Sherlock sighed softly as John sank his hands in his hair, relaxing slowly from that alone, waiting for the pill to snake its way through his system, “I know, I just, so much guilt right now, so much.” He looked over at Mark, a bit of Sherlock’s general ‘fuck with everyone I can’ nature showed through as he leaned in and whispered against John’s ear in Pashto, eyes never leaving Mark, “Do you think if began kissing you senseless, he’d leave?” 

John shivered and dropped his head back, snaking a hand around the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling him down as he leaned up, pressing their lips together as he boldly swept his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip. 

Mark rolled his eyes and tossed up his hands, “Fine, alright,” he grumbled, shaking his head to hide the smirk as he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

Sherlock had barely even noticed Mark leaving, all his focus suddenly shifted to John. His lips parted and his tongue teased John as he leaned into the kiss. A soft hiss of surprise escaping as his hand tightened on John’s hip.

John hummed into Sherlock’s mouth, tightening his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down closer as he slid his tongue along Sherlock’s, groaning at the feel of it. He wasn’t as coordinated as he’d like to be, the drugs robbing him of his finger motor skills, but he _really_ couldn’t be arsed to care at the moment. 

“Just want you,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s lips in easy Pashto, licking back into his mouth, pressing as far up as he could. It was the best he’d felt in years stacked on years. 

Sherlock moaned when John pulled him by his hair, electricity shooting through him from his scalp. He hitched John up gently by his hips, settling him more fully into his lap, words whispered as he nipped and kissed along his jaw, “I’ve wanted you longer than I care to think about.” His Pashto was soft, heated as he moved back to John’s lips and nibbled along the lower.

John gladly let his head roll any which way that granted Sherlock access, smiling goofy at him as he came back to his lips, obviously drugged but very much engaged. “S’s good,” he whispered, pulling Sherlock to him, shifting on his lap as he kissed him properly. 

He was panting hard when he finally broke away, keeping his face close to Sherlock’s, watching him carefully. “Damned shame we’re in hospital,” he breathed, nuzzling down along Sherlock’s neck, pressing soft kisses down until he reached Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock was damn near reeling from the kiss, watching John with widened eyes before they fluttered closed and he tipped his head, his neck offered up. He let out a whimper at John’s words and could not help pulling John tighter against him by his hips. His words were almost a whine, “That isn’t fair...” he swallowed hard and clung to John.

It came to John quite suddenly then that he was the most versed in their game, given Sherlock’s inexperiance. He said nothing as he scraped his teeth along the join of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, shifting in Sherlock’s lap as he dragged one knee over, careful of his injured leg, letting the boot dangle off the side of the bed as he somehow managed to straddle Sherlock’s hips. 

He curled his fingers in the hair at the base of Sherlock’s neck and pressed his hips down as he mouthed over the dip just under Sherlock’s ear. 

Sherlock couldn’t think. It had nothing to do with the sedative lacing it’s way through his veins, either. The soft sounds John was eliciting from him were downright scandalous, especially given their current location. He let out a low moan though as John’s fingers curled into his hair and he teased his neck.

“ _Christ, John._ ” His voice was rough, deeper than normal. His hips arched slightly even as he dragged John down against him.

John leaned back, pressing his hands at Sherlock’s shoulders, settling down against him brazenly with his hips as he swept his eyes over Sherlock’s face. “Oh, I’m glad I know you,” he murmured in Pashto before taking his hands away from Sherlock’s shoulders and sliding them along his face, sinking them into his hair. His elbows bent as he leaned in close, licking at Sherlock’s bottom lip before parting his own and kissing him properly. All the while he’d taken to rolling his hips against Sherlock’s, intentionally seeking out the sounds he could pull from him. 

Sherlock sank back against the elevated head of the bed, dragging John with him. He whimpered, body more than responsive to John’s ministrations. He kissed him back even as his hands slid down John’s back. His breathing was slightly ragged, words babbled when the kiss finally broke, still Pashto, “You... damn it.” He was panting, whining with each tug to his hair, trembling underneath John.

John leaned down again, mind off and body on, catching Sherlock’s lip between his teeth as he slipped a hand down Sherlock’s chest, bold and fully indifferent to their semi-public location as he coiled his fingers tight in Sherlock’s hair and flicked the button to his trousers open. “I want to do this for you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips, wildly turned on by their play with language, rolling his hips down once again before shifting back to give himself a bit of room. 

Sherlock was too far gone to care where they were by this point. His only hesitation a whispered admission, “I’ve... never. I mean _I_ have for myself... n-never with...n-never...” he whimpered, leaning his head away so that John’s fingers tangled in his hair would pull tight, silencing himself. He kissed John again, rolling his hips up against him again.

“We’re fixing that _right this moment,_ ” John rumbled back, kissing him deeply as he pulled the zip loose, no hesitation as he slipped his hand into the parted material. John was openly groaning as his fingers met the incredible heat of Sherlock’s firm flesh. He carefully pulled him free, rolling his hips down as he curled his fingers around Sherlock gently, taking a moment to tactile map him out. 

He broke away from Sherlock long enough to let him fully go, leaning back on his hips and making a wanton display of licking his own hand. He smiled and leaned back down, capturing Sherlock’s lips as he curled his slick hand back around him, starting a steady motion. 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as he watched John. His head dropped fully back on the bed, still watching John through half-lidded eyes as he let out a gasp. He arched into his hand, moaning. His lower lip caught between his teeth and he let himself just focus on the sensations as he watched John. He let out a shuddering breath after realizing he’d been holding it.

He felt like he could feel every nerve ending in his body. Everything was on fire in the most delightful ways. He finally just whimpered, giving up any semblance of control over himself.

John leaned down and swept kisses to Sherlock’s lips, nibbling along his lower lip before kissing him deeply, his hand working Sherlock over, his own breath fast and stuttered with open sounds of want. He reached up and slipped his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, breaking off the kiss and tugging back to make Sherlock expose his throat, alternating slow kisses and fast nips at the skin there as his hand played over Sherlock all the while. 

Sherlock was trembling. He whimpered and moaned, squirming now. His Pashto bitten out in a soft cry, “Can’t hold on...” he arched his neck, further exposing it as he rocked his hips up against John. One hand fisted in the bedclothes, the other clinging to John. “ _Please_.”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” John stuttered out, keeping his hand around Sherlock, only breaking pace for a half second as Sherlock’s plea made John fall over the edge himself, dropping down hard against Sherlock as he worked his hand as swiftly over him as Sherlock seemed to be bucking up into his hand, tucking his face against the side of Sherlock’s neck and breathing hard, babbling his name in broken syllables, his hips rolling down in time with Sherlock’s as he unexpectedly came apart. 

Sherlock was right there with John, body shuddering. He had his face pressed against John. He clung to him as his world shattered and kaleidoscoped around him, intense pleasure pulsing through him in waves. He murmured unintelligibly, stuck in Pashto for the moment. “I love you...” he whimpered, “Please, yes.”

He nuzzled against John, panting, trying to put pieces back together and failing. He nipped at John’s shoulder as he rode the waves out. He slowly came down and pressed kisses along John’s neck. “I love you, John Hamish Watson, with all that I am.”

A voice outside the door caught his attention as Mark intercepted a nurse, “No, no that monitor has been on the fritz. Sherlock would have alerted if something was wrong. I’ll switch out the leads in a few minutes. He cracked open the door with his back to it and called in, “Sherlock, John, coming by in bit to change out those leads... just so you know.” He fought hard to keep the chuckle out of his voice as he shut the door behind him.

Sherlock let out a groan and dropped his face back to John’s shoulder.

John nuzzled down into Sherlock’s neck, slowly regaining his breath, petting Sherlock’s hair and laying shallow, aimless kisses where he could reach as he tried to calm the man beneath him. The sedatives made him feel drunk, and he was smiling like an idiot, glad that Sherlock felt...there was tension, but in a different way than before. 

“That made Mark leave, at least,” he slurred with a grin, snuggling down to Sherlock, sticky and not at all caring. It was going to be interesting cleaning up. He didn’t care. “M tired.”

Sherlock chuckled, eyes heavy with this own sedative, “I’ll be right back.” He kissed John tenderly again. Gently he eased John over and off of him until John was resting on his side in the bed. He grabbed one side of his trousers and his bag before slipping to the lav. He made quick work of cleaning himself up and slipping into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms before he came padding back out with a warm cloth.

He watched John for a moment and grinned, “You’re impossible, y’know that?”

John gave him a lopsided, cheeky grin. “Recently ‘m very frequently told,” he mumbled, having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He reached out for the cloth and awkwardly tugged off his trousers without thought to replacing them, cleaning himself off and wadding the cloth and soiled linen together before making a blundering attempt to chuck the lot at the bin, laughing to himself as he failed miserably. 

“The hell did Mark give me?”

“No idea, not sure I care at the moment, just want in there with you.” Sherlock was blushing though, the situation entirely alien to him. He dragged out a gown from a pile of linens nearby and chucked it to the bed before scooping up the soiled linens and putting them in the bin. “Gown on, I’ll not have everyone in the hospital seeing what’s mine.” It came out with a possessive undercurrent. Sherlock was grinning though, blush still present on his cheeks as he came and sat on the edge of the bed, “I’ll see if I can have Greg bring you a bag in the morning, yeah?”

John left the arm with the line out of the gown but otherwise had it on. He stopped when Greg was mentioned, reality rushing back harder than he’d like. “Please don’t ask Greg for anything else, Sherlock,” he whispered, looking down at the bed, chewing the inside of his lip as he shook his head. “That poor bastard I can’t- no just...I’m fine, we should let him alone.”

He carefully lay back against the head of the bed and closed his eyes, tucking a hand under his head, the other wrapped around his chest as the moment of calm left them and he was once again forced to face their reality. He took as deep of a breath as his ribs would allow and exhaled slowly, sadness creeping in where Sherlock had been. 

Sherlock cursed himself as he slid into the bed and undid the snaps on the arm of the gown. He carefully drew it up and around John’s shoulder kissing him softly even as he nimbly worked the snaps. “Okay, okay I’m sorry love.” he nuzzled John’s cheek.

He drew the blankets up and gently snuggled up with John, “I love you.” He massaged tiny circles at John’s hip as he watched him, anger flooding through him for a moment at what John must be going though.

John pressed closer to him, tucking against Sherlock. “I love you,” he murmured, already drifting off, feeling heavy in every sense of the term. 

Mark listened at the door, close enough to hear movement, not words. When everything had gone quiet, he gently knocked and eased back into the room, watching the men in the bed for a moment. 

The mood had shifted entirely, and that was fine with him. Anything that kept these two away from potential explosive tempers he could work with. John had unseated his leads, and that needed to be addressed before he could let them alone. 

He moved to John’s side with a whispered apology, slipping his hand between the men, watching the monitor as he moved the wires, trying to keep the same pads in place to avoid further disruption of the two. Then he took on the elephant in the room, stepping back just enough to keep a hand on the side rail that he’d raised. 

“So, we need to keep in mind that there is a very, very real potential here for another set of memory lapses. I think we can leave you as you are, but Sherlock, I need you aware of this, okay? And you as well, John, you’re steady at the moment, it’s your call. Sometimes...well, _often_ , you wake up violent. You two need to discuss this. I’ll give you a minute.”

He nodded to Sherlock before he excused himself back into the hallway, leaving the men alone. 

Sherlock gazed at John and smiled softly, “It’s your call. I don’t want to move...but I don’t want to frighten you if you wake up out of sorts either. I just want to help, that’s all I want.” He kissed John’s forehead tenderly, far more affectionate with him than he’d been with anything or anyone in his life.

John’s hand reached up slowly and curled into Sherlock’s shirt, gently holding on to him, his thumb sweeping along his collarbone. “I don’t have memory of waking up and not knowing who you are...I just have memory of _remembering_ you, which tells me I didn’t remember you at some point before that.” Sadness crept along his features, tears stinging at his eyes as he stared up at Sherlock, biting his lip. “I get violent?” 

“You’re scared, you try to get away mostly, but, yes, it’s violent. Your fists ball up and you yank at your restraints and demand to be let go.” He sighed softly, “You tend to warm to me faster than anyone because I speak Pashto and that’s generally what you come to speaking.” He smiled, “But then you remember and the world rights a bit.” He was leaning into John’s touch slightly, just enjoying being able to be so close. 

He spoke again after a moment. “If you’d like me to stay until you’re asleep, I can do that, see if you wake up with your memories intact? Again, don’t want to leave, wouldn’t care if you hit me... but I know you would. So...” He just shrugged, unable to put into words everything he was trying to express.

John made a small sound of distress and tucked his face down to Sherlock’s chest, curling his arms around Sherlock’s back. Nothing in this was going to be simple or clear cut, not even the damn act of falling asleep. “Damn it,” he whispered as the tears finally started, sad and angry, silent. He’d already bruised Sherlock impressively several times. Sherlock’s nerves were _fried_ , and John was loathe to risk hurting him again. 

“I can’t do that to you,” he all but growled against him, his breathing hitched as he forced himself to say it. He loathed the idea of forgetting _again,_ it scared him to no end. “Goddamn it did they have to use a fucking pistol grip again and _again_? I was _chained down,_ there wasn’t a need for that shit!” he pressed closer to Sherlock, bitterly angry, desperately sad. 

Sherlock growled as rage flooded through him, his grip tightening on John for a moment as his brain reminded him just how unstable he still was at the moment. His jaw worked as he buried his face against the top of John’s head. He murmured, slipping into an entirely different language, the tones sharp as the musical language left his lips, “ _Never again will anyone dare touch you…_ ”

The language was an old habit. He’d learned Scots Gaelic to annoy Mycroft. He’d taunt him with it, conversing with their nanny in it about Mycroft. When he was annoyed or angry it would surface in his mind, he’d no idea he was even speaking it at the moment.

John went still, slowing down as he processed the sounds, running them over again and again. “Please tell me I wasn’t meant to understand that,” he whispered, his anger diverted as he thought on the words Sherlock had whispered against his cracked head, horrified that he’d not understood them. He knew he’d been losing English, what if he was already slipping?

He pulled back slightly and startled at the anger clear on Sherlock’s face, pulling his hand slowly back from Sherlock, giving him a bit of distance as a whisper of fear laced through him. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock brought his attention down to John and started to speak, “It’s alright, love.” He stopped speaking as he realized what he was doing, what language he was employing. “Gaelic... haven’t spoken it in years.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at nothing for a moment, taking stock of himself before letting out a slow breath and focusing on John again. “It would seem I’m still rather scrambled myself. Anything having to do with you being injured, or hurt, in any way... It’s why I broke Mycroft’s nose.”

He chewed on his lip before dropping his eyes and whispering softly, “I’m sorry, John. I’ve been allowing my own issues to keep me from caring for you properly.”

John reached out slowly and touched Sherlock’s face, gentling his own expression. “I just need you here. That’s as _proper_ as it needs to be. I just need you here. And I can’t...please don’t let me keep hurting you, Sherlock. I can’t stand it, can’t stand coming back to myself to learn that I’ve added to the list of things that are hurting you. Please.” 

He leaned in and gently kissed him, carefully curling his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, touching him gently. After a few minutes he eased back and watched him before his mind caught up. “Wait. Wait. What was...what was Mycroft doing that made you think he was going to hurt me?”

Sherlock tensed slightly, “I told him to stay away. You were so adamant about not talking to or seeing him... He... John he had me involuntarily drugged and kept here for _three fucking days_ before I could get to you. When we brought you to the hospital, Greg and I... they- Jesus, Mark didn’t know me, only what Mycroft had told him. I tried to throttle him when he told me Mycroft had insisted they admit me to let me come off the drugs.”

Sherlock was trembling with the memory as he spoke, “Greg had to knock me down and cuff me and I was still fighting. Someone got me in the leg...” He took in a shuddering breath. “Woke up three days later, restrained, Mark standing over me and asking if I was ready to see you.

John’s jaw locked tight and he pulled Sherlock to him, wrapping him up tight in his arms, bitterly angry. While he was abundantly glad Sherlock hadn’t suffered through the physical withdrawal without help, that was not...not how that should have happened. 

Not right after Sherlock had been on his knees, begging John to take the weapon from his own head. He nearly broached that subject, but Sherlock was already at his limit here. 

He tucked his face down against Sherlock’s neck. “Breathe, Sherlock, just breathe. Mark isn’t going to let that happen to you again. When I’m not a fucking basket case, I won’t either. I...you wouldn’t...there would have been nothing you could have done for me in that time other than drive yourself mad. Breathe. Slow down. God, how I love you,” he whispered, slipping in and out of Pashto without noticing. 

Sherlock’s Pashto was soft, “Rest, just rest. I’ll be alright, always alright.” He huffed a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment, “Almost lost you all over again. You really need to stop this nonsense.” There was a bit of humor lacing the statement. Sherlock hated the rapid mood shifts. 

He suddenly kissed John, dragging him as close as they could be, tongue teasing his lips as he shivered, words whispered against him, “I love you, I’m never letting you go. They’d have to drag me kicking and screaming from your side and even then I’d fight my way back.” The words were fierce, laced with heavy emotions. “I am yours and you are _mine_. I’ll not give you up.”

Somewhere, the man Sherlock had cultivated in the long months he was gone surfaced, though in a much different way. He channeled the energy into his sharp dedication to John. 

John kissed him in return before drawing back and leveling a no-nonsense gaze at him. “Don’t you pull that ‘always alright’ rubbish with me, Sherlock. Don’t.” He gentled a bit after that, brushing their lips together again, hugging him close and tight, “I love you. I’m yours. I’m not leaving without a fight, either. I need you to look after yourself when I can’t look after you and I need you to tell me when you’re not okay. Like right now. You’re not okay. Neither am I.”

He drew back after another kiss, nuzzling his nose to Sherlock’s as his brows knit and he couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eye. “I can’t hurt you. I don’t know...” he had to stop as his throat closed, fear clamping around his heart, “I don’t know if I’ll know you...and If I’ve been mistaking you for the men who held me back there...I’ll _hurt you._ ”

Sherlock nodded, jaw tight for a moment before he finally relaxed again. “John, rest. I’ll lie with you til you fall asleep and I’ll move to my chair. Okay?” He sounded exhausted, and he was, both physically and mentally. He pressed a kiss to John’s lips briefly. “We will be alright, even if we’re not now. We have to be. We’ve fought too hard for this...”

He snuggled against John, eyes heavy but fighting to stay awake so that he didn’t fall asleep before John. He clung to him, words heavy, “Gonna get my violin if they’ll let me... want to play for you. Missed it so much, missed annoying you with it so much... all of it.”

Mark had let himself back inside in time to hear John’s English giving way to Pashto, his good vibe falling away as he swore under his breath. He’d told neurology what had happened with John’s sudden rush of recall in its entirety, and had been warned in return that it was unlikely to last. Mark had known, which is why he’d let Sherlock know, but it still was hard. 

To hear John’s language slipping was just another indication of what was to come. He sighed and settled into his chair at the back of the room, not knowing what arrangement the men had come to, but set on moving Sherlock as soon as John was asleep. 

His mobile buzzed and he looked down, swearing at himself as he read the text. 

All okay? Or are we killing Holmes Sr.? -GL

He’d forgotten to let Greg know the threat had passed, for now. He sent him a swift message to bring him up to speed and then set his attention back on the men, watching John’s monitors, waiting for him to slip back under. 

John pulled at Sherlock just as sleep was taking him down, already foggy, losing his English. “Think I’m...if I...London...I’m in London...I’ll figure it out okay? I love you...gonna figure out how to come back,” he whispered, his eyes suddenly opening as his heart jumped, lucid again in the encroaching fog. He knew he was slipping, could feel it rushing up on him. 

He swept his eyes over Sherlock’s face. “Oh, god I’m sorry, I love you,” he was openly frightened, his eyelids heavy again, pulling him down despite himself, clinging to Sherlock’s shirt, “I’ll...it’s going to...we were...I...I don’t want to lose...I’m so afraid...please...” confusion slowly crept in over the fear painted across his expression. A minute later, he adjusted his hold, looking down at his hands before blinking slow and heavy at Sherlock’s face. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered, distant and heavy. 

Sherlock watched him, heart breaking, as his chest tightened uncomfortably. “Rest mo gradh, my love, just rest...” He gently smoothed a stray piece of slowly lengthening hair from John’s face. “Rest, we’ll see you in the morning.” He tenderly hummed to John, a piece Sherlock had taken to playing when John was tired and sprawled on the sofa because it never failed to knock him out. Fingers gently stroked John’s face, avoiding still lingering bruises.

“Rest love, rest.”

He continued humming, intent on letting John fall asleep in his arms, even as his own eyes grew heavy and he fought sleep. He watched John slipping away from him, unable to reach out and pull him back from wherever the injuries were stealing him away to. His eyes burned, heart cracking apart as John faded away on him.

John had known something warm and true just a few moments ago as he clung to Sherlock, sinking down heavy to the bed. It was bleeding away from him, but that was alright, given the expression on the man’s face. John was afraid, but it was okay, he was surely okay. He reached up and gently touched Sherlock’s jaw, his fingers sliding down carefully over the fading bruise, shifting to trace over Sherlock’s lower lip, trailing down to his chin before dropping away. 

“Good man,” John mumbled before his eyes slipped closed and he fell into sleep. 

Mark had always considered himself a fairly tough man, he’d seen his share of sad bedside scenes. _This_ damn pair was putting a lump in his throat. He didn’t need to understand their words to feel how terribly this hurt them. 

When John went lax, Mark went to his feet, carefully approaching Sherlock’s side of the bed. He gave him a moment before silently reaching out and settling a hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing along the bone there once. He didn’t need to tell Sherlock of the risk again, he’d just watch John fall away from him right then and there. 

Mark gently cleared his throat before whispering, “Let’s get you settled, Sherlock, bit of rest will help.”

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John’s forehead, whispering softly to him retreating further into the comfort of Gaelic. “Rest my love, I’ll see you in the morning.” He used the language as a security blanket for a moment before withdrawing from the bed, easing the covers around John. He looked to Mark as he stood beside the bed. 

“Well aware I’m speaking yet another language... it’s a coping mechanism I haven’t used since I was fairly young.” English now, even as he curled himself into the chair, not even grabbing pillow or blankets, just staring across the narrow space to John, “He was gone there at the end, fear flicking across his face... I don’t know. ‘Good man’ he said as he fell asleep.” Sherlock’s voice was wavering now, exhaustion threatening to let everything else in and overwhelm him, a breath away from crumbling to dust. He’d watched John slip through his fingers like water, no matter how desperate his grip, he’d lost him in the end.

“I noticed the language shift start about ten minutes ago. He was lucid a very long time today, very good news,” Mark explained as he gathered up Sherlock’s bedding, handing him a pillow before reclining the man’s chair for him, dragging the blanket over him. “I imagine the fear was rooted in his awareness, but he knew who _you_ were the entire time.Take heart in that,” Mark offered, his tone more gentle than he’d ever used with Sherlock before, sensing the poor sod was on the edge of a breakdown himself.

He glanced apologetically at Sherlock before moving, “I’ve got to restrain him again, he’s asked himself not to be a threat and-” he shut himself up and moved to swiftly handle the job, securing John down and checking his monitors, talking to Sherlock over his shoulder. 

“Could you eat?”

“I... I know. I don’t know about eating, I should, he’d want me to... I’m just so damned tired. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this in my life.” Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his curls. “I need to go home, get some of John’s things... my violin.” He stood and swayed on his feet before shaking his head and starting towards the lav. He was in absolutely no condition to go anywhere, but he was suddenly dead set on gathering comfortable things for John.

He leaned in the doorway of the lav, having momentarily lost track of the garment bag with his suits in it. His head swam and he huffed slightly as he stared across at John, “He needs things. I need to get them.” Sherlock was beginning to crack. It would heal with rest, but he was nearing frantic to go and get John’s things for him.

Mark turned around and swept his eyes over Sherlock. “Come on, mate, don’t try this now. Back in the chair, have a rest. John doesn’t want _things,_ he wants _you._ You’ll kill yourself trying to walk out of here,” he’d closed the space between them, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to guide him back to his spot beside John. He gentled his voice as though he were talking to a sad child, keeping his touch careful and calm, “It’s alright, Sherlock, this is incredibly hard.”

Sherlock let Mark put him back in the chair and he pulled his legs up to him, wrapping arms around himself and resting his chin on his knees. His voice was quiet, steadier this time, “I think I’m cracking apart. I... I’ll eat something and then rest. That’s the prudent thing to do, yes?” Sherlock’s stomach actually growled at him as he thought about food and he looked momentarily startled.

“Hmm, food is apparently a must.” There was a bit of humor back before he suddenly babbled, “Mood swings, they’re killing me Mark. Anger, fear, happy, sad... it’s too much.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m just... this is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced and overall it’s very frightening and I don’t know how to handle it.”

Mark crouched down beside Sherlock and looked up at him calmly. “Sherlock,” he said softly, trying to be as reassuring as possible, “you’ve been through...” he shook his head and huffed an incredulous laugh, “hell, I don’t think we have accurate vocabulary for it. I know you are a unique man, I understand that, but stress is stress, and it has chemical properties that affect the mind. What you’ve gone through in the last two years, coming to a head like this,” he waved in general to John and then back to Sherlock, “it would take anyone down to catatonic. I’m going to write you something for this beyond simple anxiety meds, okay? Something to help stable you out for a while, keep this from taking you down so hard, and I want you to spend a little time with me each day. Will you do that for me?”

He kept as clinically concerned as he could, sticking close, trying to reassure without belittling. 

Sherlock watched him for a moment, mulling his words over before speaking, “My initial reaction is to shove you away. I’ve never not handled something on my own and my previous encounters with psychiatric drugs is not, strictly speaking, the best. But I’ve never been through the past two years before. Never lost so much of myself, never dealt with so much... love is an entirely new emotion, one I’d not experienced previous to this, well Irene... but she doesn’t exactly count.”

He huffed softly, “I think what you propose is likely best for all parties, but especially me. I cannot care for John if my own head is too scrambled to even think.”

Mark gave him a nod and restrained from touching him, pushing himself to his feet. “Okay, good. Thank you. Please stay here, I’m going to find you some proper food and I’m going to get your meds. These are not exactly ‘psych’ drugs, I’m giving you is technically anti-seizure medication with an off lable use that will keep your moods...less likely to flux so hard. You will still have range, your normal range, just...it’s like loosening the handling of a steering wheel, you won’t turn so sharply on them, that’s all. You’ve a unique mind, I’m not keen to alter it much.” 

With that, he left Sherlock on his own with John, taking the better part of half an hour before he returned with a steaming plate of pasta and pills rattling in his pocket, knocking softly at the door. 

Sherlock jerked awake, having dozed off, head resting on his knees. He cleared his throat as Mark came in. He rubbed his eyes and dragged the rolling tray over to him, “Welcome back.” his voice was heavy with sleep and he cleared his throat again, “I dozed off. Sorry.” He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. He sighed softly.

“Anti-seizure meds then?” He yawned, “Anything special I should look out for?” He hummed softly as he took a bite of the food and then smiled a bit as he swallowed, “Thank you... not sure I realized how hungry I was.” He was tiredly babbling slightly.

Mark settled in a chair at his side, watching him tuck into his food. “Not really, no. Dry mouth, perhaps a bit of grogginess when first taking them, but they are mostly benign. It’s a good way to start, at least, if they don’t help you I can always put you on something heavier. The purpose here is not to avoid seizure, of course, but the mechanism has a happy side effect of stabilizing mood.”

He looked over to John as Sherlock ate, happy to see him resting. “The man is skilled in feigning sleep,” he said with a half-smile, “impressively so. Has he always been that way?”

Sherlock chuckled, “Not when he first moved to Baker Street. I used to burst in on him and he came awake with a start... He soon got acclimated to that and would sleep through it so I’d poke and prod him til he woke. He was starting to be able to fool me when, well... The Fall. I’d imagine he perfected it when he went down there...” He grinned a bit as he looked over John.

“He’s so much smarter and more clever than anyone gives him credit for. His brain may not work the same way... but John is smart, as smart as I am, simply in other ways.” There was no boast in Sherlock’s voice about his own intellect, he just took it as fact that he was exceedingly smart. He hummed softly, “I am most guilty of underestimating him.”

“Has he been informed yet?” Mark asked quietly, going to his feet suddenly and touching John’s shoulder to ensure he was legitimately out before carrying on with this conversation. He looked back to Sherlock, glad to see that he was well into his meal, oddly proud of this man he’d come to know over the last few days. 

“Informed of what?” Sherlock looked at Mark quizzically as he sat there, making his way through the pasta systematically decimating the plate, weeks and months starting to well and truly catch up with him in the sense of his nutrition.

“The Military Affairs rep was here two days ago, getting things in place for John when he’s better able to receive after care. POW and all that, they like to handle their own. Anyhow, I was wondering if he knew he was the only one who made it out? Apparently there were seven of them. I was curious how much he knew about it, never handled a soldier in this capacity before.”

He pulled out his wallet and produced a card for Sherlock with the local rep’s contact information, surprised they hadn’t paid Sherlock a visit directly, yet.

Sherlock had frozen. _Only one who made it out._ He couldn’t breathe. Everything closed in around him so suddenly he couldn’t even see. A white-hot feeling crept up the back of his neck and the world tilted as every fear Sherlock had felt when he first learned John had gone back crashed in around him.

His mind worked impossibly fast, supplying up to him every fear he’d had. He watched John succumb to death in a myriad of ways in the span of seconds. The overwhelming rush of everything abruptly stilled, mind going completely dark for him and Sherlock slumped in the chair, out cold.

“Sherlock!” Mark called out as he dashed over, shoving his things aside, pressing his fingers to Sherlock’s neck as the man suddenly dropped out on him. He was swearing under his breath as he pushed him back into the recliner, tipping the head back and down as much as he could, watching his breathing. 

He rolled him to his side in the chair, shocked at this response. Had he just...blacked out on him. “Sherlock, open your eyes, come back here, Sherlock, come on,” he called out, keeping one hand to his pulse, the other vigorously rubbing at his back, trying to rouse him, “I don’t want to admit you, come on.”

Sherlock muttered, shoving at Mark as he tried to come around. He shook his head and tried to move away from Mark slightly, sluggish as everything tried to right itself in his mind. It took long moments before Sherlock finally spoke, voice cracking, “Nearly lost him, thought I had, that close though..” He brought his arms up over his head, curling into a ball, not entirely sure he could process just how close he’d come to losing John. No one had told him John was the only one to make it out. Sherlock knew there’d been a group, no idea how many in the group.

Tears were rolling down his cheeks without his awareness. He was sucked in by grief all over again, trying to remind himself John was there, John was in the room with them, everything was going to be ok. He couldn’t hang on to to the thought tough as panicking grief rolled over him like a tidal wave, leaving him balled up, hands in his hair.

Mark moved so that he was on the side of the chair facing Sherlock, crouching down eye level, reaching out and taking his wrists in hand but not pulling them away from his hair yet. “Sherlock, breathe for me. One single breath, deep as you can, and hold it,” he instructed, louder than he would have liked with John in the room, but Sherlock was going to black out on him. “John Watson is right here. One deep breath and hold it.”

He swept his thumbs along the insides of Sherlock’s wrists, eyes flicking over to the bottle of injectable sedative on the table beside John. He shook his head and looked back to Sherlock, not quite there yet. “John is right here. He’s right here.”

Sherlock tried to focus on Mark, hearing his words but not quite understanding them. He peered at him, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed as they slowly trickled through. John was here. John was here with Sherlock. He tried to breathe in and it felt like someone was sitting on his chest. He clawed fingers down at his chest suddenly, raking and pulling at the t-shirt he wore.

His head swam and he let out a strangled whimper before tucking his head again and holding on to his hair, eyes closing. He was trying to breathe, he’d get half a breath in and try to hold it. He finally was able to stutter out, “tr-trying.” 

“I’m giving you something for this, you’re having an attack, not your fault, just wait,” Mark said as he let him go and went over to the table, rapidly drawing up what he needed. He came back with the needle. “I won’t keep you down, okay? You will wake up right here. Can I give you this?”

Sherlock shrank back from him as he opened his eyes again, brain slow to process what was going on before he finally choked out an affirmative. He was shaking, trying desperately to cling to the fact that John was okay, but it kept slipping away from him.

Mark didn’t bother tugging up Sherlock’s sleeve, he just gave the injection through the material into his bicep, capping the needle back and dropping it to the side as he clamped his hand over the site. “Look, Sherlock, look,” he said as he carefully moved the chair around so he could see John. “He’s right here. It’s okay. Breathe for me, Sherlock,” he instructed, letting him go and plucking the mask off the wall and dragging it over to Sherlock before pressing it over his face and forcibly holding it there, needing him not to black out again, oxygen flowing through the mask. 

He started rubbing Sherlock’s back slowly, trying to calm him down. “He’s right here, Sherlock. You’re okay, he’s right here.”

Sherlock hadn’t protested the mask. He was staring at John, eyes focusing on him. He listened to Mark’s tones, still not quite catching the words. He slowly began breathing easier as the drug worked its way into him. He finally took a deep, shuddering breath. His hand came up and wrapped around Mark’s wrist that was holding the mask. He did nothing but cling to him as he watched John sleep peacefully.

He was fighting to stay awake, grip loosening and then tightening again on Mark’s wrist as he lay there.

Mark kept himself crouched beside Sherlock, his hand steady at his back, allowing Sherlock whatever freedom he wanted as he tried to hold him together. He felt like a proper ass having thrown the man into such a desperate spiral, not anticipating this severe of a reaction from him. He would be making some marked changes to their arrangement as soon as he had Sherlock settled, that was certain. 

“You can rest. Everything is okay. John is alright. He’s safe, and he’s right there. It’s okay,” he kept up a gentle string of calming platitudes as he tried to ease Sherlock’s panic, glad he’d left the sedative, keen on knocking the poor man down for the next 24-48 and regretting the promise not to. 

Sherlock’s grip finally loosened and his hand dropped back to the chair. He momentarily flashed his eyes open at the jolt, focusing on John for a moment before his eyes drooped again and he finally allowed himself to be completely dragged under. His breathing steady and his body relaxed as the sedative worked.

Mark waited a few minutes before carefully extracting himself from Sherlock, pulling the mask away and replacing it on the wall, shutting off the flow. He dragged a hand over his face before settling it on his hip, looking between the two men. 

_Dear. God._

He shook his head and went back to Sherlock, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder before lowering John’s bed as far as it would go, ensuring the men would easily be able to see the other upon waking, whispering prayers to all the gods he could think of that John would be calm and if nothing else, recognize Sherlock, when he came back. 

He then ducked his head into the hall and called a nurse to sit with them for a moment while he went off to make arrangements. He called in Greg and Molly, for lack of anyone else to consult with, and arranged for a proper second bed to be brought in. There was a missive dropped to security regarding that wing of the fifth floor and foot traffic. If Mycroft wanted in, he’d be hard pressed to stop him, but he’d be notified the second the man came on to the grounds. 

He put in for a consult with a trusted friend in psychology and called Military Affairs, scheduling a meeting between the three of them and neurology. This was going to be handled properly here out if it killed him. 

Finally he made his way back, excusing the nurse, settling into his own seat once again, waiting for one or the other to wake.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock snapped awake sometime later, his eyes going to John in alarm before he blew out a shaking breath in relief. He’d been dreaming of him, Sherlock’s mind supplying him with any number of imaginative ways for John to die, painting out the scenes for him in vivid detail over and over again. 

His mental process was shrouded in a confused fog and he was suddenly desperate to get to John, trying to push himself up out of the chair to get to his side, collapsing back down as vertigo gripped him, the room spinning. 

“He’s okay,” Mark offered quietly from the back of the room where he’d tucked in to his backlogged charting. “Don’t stand up yet, you’re just at the half-life.” 

He pushed the little makeshift desk aside and stood up, stretching before walking over to Sherlock’s side and crouching down, fingers to his pulse. He frowned at him, shaking his head. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrified.” Sherlock answered honestly as he sucked in another breath and finally looked at Mark, “I knew, I mean, I thought I knew how much danger he was in. And, I just... I. Mark, I can’t lose him. I can’t.” Sherlock was fighting panic again and took a deep breath, slowly letting it out to calm himself. “I think I broke something.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, eyes darting back to John. “He’s been through so much because of me.”

Mark handed him both pills, the stabilizer and the anti-anxiety, along with a bottle of water. “None of that. Won’t do you any good. I need you to take those, and then I need you to look me in the eye and tell me honestly if you’re going to be able to endure him not recognizing you, should that happen. It’s _fine_ if you can’t. He won’t know the difference. I’d rather have him wake up and ask for you, than have him wake up and break you to bits.”

He waited for Sherlock to do as he asked, watching him without give. 

Sherlock took the pills and sipped at the water for a moment. “I would rather be here, even if he doesn’t recognize me. All of my breaking down seems to stem from him being dead... He’s not dead, I just keep having to remind myself of that. Even if he can’t recognize me... The recordings, they’re in my bag. Little mini cassette looking device... it’s one of those silly retro things, it’s actually digital. I’ve no idea where Lestrade got such a ridiculous contraption.” Sherlock shook his head at the idea.

“Anyhow, it should be out where anyone can get to it to play it for John should he wake confused. He probably will considering we lost him at the end before he went to sleep.” Sherlock slowly, by small increments, began trying to sit up from his reclined position. He took a deep breath and shook his head as he became dizzy again, dropping back down.

Mark gave him a tight nod. “Okay. If that changes, you tell me. I need you to understand what happened here today, Sherlock. You’ve had a very acute stress reaction, and we are going to start treating you with a bit more intensity. I’m not officially admitting you, but I’d like you to make an effort to follow my advice. Your brother hired me for your care for a reason. I carry clout here, and I’m very good at what I do. He’s still paying me, I checked, so I’m going to assume a bit of leeway despite the awkwardness of the...nature of your relationship with him.”

He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and eased the head of the chair up a bit, helping him adjust to the elevation. “I’ve got a proper bed in the hall for you, and I’m just going to have you in here as a secondary patient. You have to rest, and so does John. I’ve called the MA official, as well as psych and neuro. We are going to consult on his case tonight. If you took the news like that, I’m not at all prepared to blindly tell him. One of those guys was a kid he was treating. I don’t know how that’s going to go.” He cleared his throat and eased Sherlock up a bit more, keeping a hand on him to hold him steady. 

“Mycroft...I know you probably don’t want to hear this but perhaps it will help. Mycroft is the one who organized John’s rescue. He was assumed KIA, according to the story Mycroft gave me the day I took you pair on, but one day he came into his office to find a flash drive that had been sent to several officials. They were torturing the group of them, and John was, as the resident physician, a frontrunner. Mycroft watched the tapes and found him. So. Whatever that is worth, perhaps a bit of insight to his odd behavior now, I don’t know. You lot are difficult.”

Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t know everything. I was... I was in the gutter by that point. I came home and John was supposedly dead and I, well I tried to kill myself indirectly.” It was the first time he’d admitted that was what he was up to. He winced at the thought and took a deep breath. “If, if you feel I need to be properly admitted, then, well, I’ll sign whatever you need me to for it to be fully voluntary and not any of this Mycroft backed nonsense.”

Sherlock looked back up to Mark. “I’ve never experienced a loss of control over myself as serious as this. It’s terrifying.” 

Mark touched a hand to his shoulder and smiled gently at him. “Love makes us strangers to ourselves. Combine that with the stress you pair have been under; impossible. You’ve done fine. I’d rather not admit you now, I can care for you as is if you will keep listening to me.”

He helped Sherlock to sit all the way up then, pulling away the blanket and pillow. “Greg and Molly are coming. They are stopping at your flat, and then coming here. You can play that violin with a mute on it. I’d like you to go into that lav and have a shower and shave, and I’ll have the room set when you get back out. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded and stood slowly. He made his way into the lav and shut the door. He stripped out of his clothes and turned on the taps. He gave it a minute and stepped into the shower, sighing with relief as he happily washed away the clinging stickiness of sweat.

Sherlock took his time readying himself, choosing to change back into clean pyjamas rather than fool with the rest of it. He hummed as he shaved and then ran a hand over his face. He gathered his soiled things and shoved them in a plastic bag before brushing his teeth. He peered in the mirror for a moment, satisfied he looked as well as could possibly be expected.

Sherlock eventually emerged, the soft scent of his soap wafting into the air. He ruffled his still damp hair as he leaned in the doorway.

Mark had the bed in place, the recliner moved back to the corner of the large room. Sherlock and John had been placed in a disused wing in a double room, featuring a large window and a large lav. It was an ideal setup if there was such a thing in hospital. 

He kept their beds close, though not touching. John was still out, his monitors calm and steady. He looked up at Sherlock when the man came out of the lav and smiled, happy to see him in better sorts. 

A small knock at the door preceded Molly and Greg, the latter with two bags over his shoulder and a violin case in hand. Molly smiled and went right for Sherlock while Greg set the things down carefully in the chairs at the back of the room, going to shake Mark’s hand. 

Sherlock wrapped Molly in a tight hug as she pressed her face to his chest, arms around his waist. She sighed softly, “Heard you’ve been having a rough time of it.” Sherlock had his chin tucked against her head and he nodded slightly. “Bit, yeah... Didn’t know he was the only one to make it out.” His breath hitched and she gently rubbed his back. “It’s okay Sherlock, it’s okay. He’s here, he’s going to be fine.”

He drew back and smiled down to her, nodding, “I know, it’s just trying to keep my brain wrapped around that... it’s a bit difficult right now.” She let him go but wrapped a hand in his and tugged him towards the bed, “Come on, let’s get you sat down at least.” He followed her willingly and pulled himself onto the bed. He sat cross-legged on it and looked at the three. 

“Thanks Greg, Molly, really. I can’t thank you both enough, you’ve been through so much at our hands. I once told John I didn’t have friends... I was wrong.”

Greg hung back with Mark but nodded at Sherlock, a bit taken aback by his forwardness. He’d seen the man in a good many situations, and never once had he been thanked without undertones of resentment. He cleared his throat and pushed his hands in his pockets, leaving Molly to handle the man, a bit out of his element. For now, he focused on the man who’d become his closest friend. 

“How’s John?” He asked Mark, sweeping his eyes over the shorter man, frowning at the restraints still in place. “Still need all that? John’s not... not an aggressive man, uh, typically.”

Mark scrubbed a hand over his hair as he filled Greg in on the last day, skipping over Sherlock and John’s more... private hour. He remembered then to go put the little recorder on the table by John’s bed in case it was needed and then checked his watch, swearing. “I’ve got evening rounds. I will stop by before I try and steal a few hours sleep, okay? Page me if you need me.”

Sherlock watched them, he hadn’t let Molly’s hand go. He clung to her as he sat there, tired but unwilling to spoil the time they had. She squeezed his hand gently and smiled to him. “Perk up Sherlock, we’ll get him through this.” She’d listened carefully to everything Mark said while soothing Sherlock.

He cleared his throat as he nodded, “John’s strong, stronger than all of us I think. He’ll be fine.” Sherlock didn’t voice the thought that he was pretty damn sure _he_ wouldn’t be,if things kept going sideways on them.

Greg was watching John as Molly and Sherlock were talking. “Guys,” he whispered, watching as the man’s fingers twitched and he began to slowly wake up. He stepped closer, a bit worried. He’d not really had any interaction with the man since that day. It was something he was personally past, but John wasn’t exactly swift to recognize people. For a moment, he nearly left. 

John came awake a bit too fast for that, though. His vision was blurred as he blinked up at the ceiling, heavy and foggy. He took a few slow, deep breaths, trying to put together where he was. He began to turn his head but a sudden, sharp pain stopped that from happening. He hissed and closed his eyes, going very still again. 

There was a sudden flash of spice and dust in his nose but he shook that away. Whatever was at his back was soft, and he felt far too clean for caves. He wasn’t there. 

_Try English_ , his mind whispered. 

“Hello?” he rasped, Pashto despite his intention, English to his ears, eyes pinched shut. 

Sherlock frowned but answered, Pashto soft in the air, “Hello, John. Do you know where you are?” He looked to Molly and then Greg, shaking his head slightly as he spoke quietly, hurriedly in English, “He comes to speaking Pashto a lot...” He turned his full attention back to John. Fingers almost painfully tight on Molly’s hand.

John processed that. Pashto response to an English question. He kept himself calm, hardly moving as he gave a small nod, blinking his eyes open to provide an answer before one was extracted forcibly from him. He swept his eyes around the higher points of the room, noting a monitor and the railing for privacy curtains. Somehow, the hospital was worse than the caves. At least there, he’d known what to expect. He schooled his tone and again went for English, responding calm and steady. 

“I’m in hospital,” he replied, daring to give a gentle smile, using his tone and body language to express that he was not a threat, not right now. 

Sherlock leaned up some, “John, do you know who we are?” His voice was gentle, still Pashto in response to John’s own. “Any one of us?” He was slipping out of Molly’s grasp and climbing from the bed. He moved to John’s side, into his field of vision, hanging back enough to be less threatening. His eyes never left John’s as he spoke to Molly, English again. “In my bag, the device Greg brought... bring it. Quickly please.”

Greg leaned in a bit, “Right at your side, Sherlock,” he said quietly, nodding to the thing there that Mark had set out already. 

John was fighting hard against waves of icy terror, keeping his expression gentle and non-threatening, forcing his eyes to touch on the man. English. Tall. Calm. His brow knit slightly before he mastered himself and his eyes darted away, heart racing. He cursed silently when he heard the thundering in his ears reflected on the monitors, giving him away. He pulled in a slow breath and apologized. 

“Forgive me I’ve... must have hit my head I... c-cannot seem to place you,” he responded, doing his best to keep his voice from wavering, believing himself to use English, not clear on why this man kept responding in Pashto. 

Sherlock hadn’t even noticed the recorder, he spoke softly, “I’m going to play something for you, okay?” He smiled, “It’s okay that you can’t place me. Everything is okay.” He pushed play on the device and set it on the table, letting it play for John.”

John listened as the sound of his own voice played over the speakers, his heart slamming hard against his chest. At first he was speaking in a language that made no sense to him at all before his voice came in clear after a pause. 

He was talking about multiple head injuries and being in London, this was Sherlock Holmes at his side. He was in hospital, he had retrograde amnesia, he was no longer with his unit, he needed to remain calm, these people could be trusted.  
His hands curled in on themselves as he listened, realizing that he was restrained, trying not to bring it to anyone’s attention that he was aware of that fact just yet. 

His own voice carried on about his condition, and what had happened to get him here, and he was bordering on blacking right out. He looked down to confirm his suspicion; a drip line fed right into his arm. Jesus they were drugging him. 

_Slow down, John. Think._

He pushed out a slow, controlled breath and waited for the tape to go silent. When it did, he made himself look over to the man he called Sherlock. “Okay then. Hello Sherlock,” he said in a way he hoped sounded calm and convinced. 

Sherlock smiled softly, John had looked confused at the English part of his message and only started listening to the Pashto. Sherlock was gentle as he spoke, “John, do you realize you’re speaking Pashto today? There’s been some confusion lately and it’s okay, I can translate anything you need me to... but I don’t want you to be frightened if the doctor comes back and you can’t understand him.” He stayed back but offered a hand close to John’s.

“Greg and Molly are here too. They are friends of ours. I know this is frightening, but no one is going to hurt you.”

John had cared for a patient, years and years ago, that had been a POW for a decade. It was nearly unbelievable to him then, as a fresh, young thing, to believe what could be done to the mind. Day in and day out caring for this man who so completely doubted his reality had taught John well the severe danger of psychological manipulation. 

This was a _dangerous_ game. 

He dropped his eyes to the other people in the room, a short, mousy woman and a salt and pepper man, two more English, and gave them each a tight smile. They wanted him to believe _he_ was the one prattling on in Pashto, fine, he’d play. 

“Must have been an impressive couple of blows,” he quipped, trying his hardest to just be _John_ despite the icy fear. He _was_ speaking English. He never defaulted to Pashto, found the language difficult and harsh. It wasn’t happening. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly and nodded tightly, “It was.” He drew his hand back and folded his hands behind his back. He switched to English, “Greg, Molly, it’s going to be a difficult day. I think, maybe you should leave.” His voice was cooler than it had been, mentally shutting doors as he moved back to his violin case. He brushed Molly’s attempt for a hug off but caught her hand and squeezed it when she looked hurt.

Molly looked back at John, “Goodbye, John...” she slipped out of the room nervously. Sherlock was shutting down, she could see it.

Sherlock’s gaze fell on Greg and he shrugged.

Greg looked at John again, stepping forward so that he could properly see him. He didn’t speak, clear on the fact that John wouldn’t understand, and it would probably make things worse. He was simply gauging him by his body language, trying to understand his mind. 

John did not recoil, but damn was it difficult. He gave the man a desperate smile, anything to make himself appear non-threatening. He tamped down on the urge to struggle with the restraints, a thin sweat breaking along his brow. “Uh, Greg. Hi... hi... I’m just... n-need anything?” he stammered, breathing faster, looking suddenly to the man who seemed to be in charge of his treatment. 

Sherlock huffed, “He’s asking if _you_ need anything. Bleeding idiot is scared out of his mind. Tell the nurse on your way out to ask Mark to stop by before he leaves, yeah?” Sherlock muted the instrument without waiting for an answer and crawled on his bed. He resumed his cross-legged position and plucked at the instrument gently, making sure things hadn’t shifted in transport and that the mute was settled properly.

John watched the men talking, baffled as to what the hell language they could be going at. He’d said the wrong thing, whatever he’d done. The taller man was agitated now, making Greg put his hands up and step back. John swallowed hard and wished to hell he wasn’t tethered to a monitor as he put his effort to the few things he _could_ do. He focused on easing his breathing down, calming himself, allowing the fear to settle deep in his gut and away from his vitals. He watched as Greg said something more to... Sherlock. It was Sherlock. 

“I’ll let him know. Just uh, take it easy, Sherlock, okay? Molls is on shift and I’m not going far.”

He shook his head and looked back to John once more before leaving. 

John watched the exit, straining to get a look outside and failing to see anything impressive. Sherlock was plucking at a violin, of all things, clearly angry. John turned his attention to the restraints. He slipped a single finger along the rim of one, the leather soft and the buckle familiar. His eyes cut back to the man as he began to feel out where it connected to the bed, a deep throb starting somewhere in the center of his head. 

“I’ve upset you.”

Sherlock brought the violin up and tucked it against himself, eyes meeting John’s, “I can never stay upset with you. Just relax, John.” He watched John for a moment, gaze heavy, mind turning over everything that was happening, desperately wanting _his_ John back. The one who’d had him last night.

He closed his eyes as he started. The piece one of his own compositions. It was intense, dark, brooding. It would break occasionally into happiness before dipping back. It mirrored so much of what they had been going through. He lost himself to the music, playing desperately through it, pouring everything he had into it.

John was going to die, he was sure of it as he watched him, soaking in the distressing music. The man beside him was utterly off it and John had no idea what to offer him, what benefit he had to keeping John here. John was a good doctor, but what use was that in a building full of doctors? He was a soldier, but he wasn’t exactly privy to secrets, and he wasn’t here in the Queen’s uniform. He’d contracted. What the hell did this Sherlock _want_ with him? 

He worked at the cuff where it joined to his wrist for a minute before giving that up, putting his entire focus to the connection at the bedrail. The link itself was too difficult to reach, but he put his mind back to several of the beds he’d used in the past, focusing on the railing itself. 

He was nearly blind with fear at this point, his hands shaking, glad for the music that was covering the sound of his purposeful exploration. _Come on, come on_ , he muttered to himself silently, eyes locked to Sherlock, fingers flighty on the bars until he felt the _give_ and his heart lept. 

He’d found it, the single, lucky catch in the bar. Instantly he dropped his hands, laying them still, making no more efforts. His fingertips stung where the metal had cut into them and he pressed them hard together, praying silently for them not to bleed enough to catch notice. 

He closed his eyes and, as he’d done countless times in his captivity, dropped into that false stasis of sleep. 

Sherlock finished playing a few minutes after John had fallen asleep again, or at least asleep to Sherlock’s eyes. His words were soft, “I love you, you bloody fool. Still can’t believe you went back.” He huffed slightly and curled up with the violin, just holding it as he laid there, curled onto his side. “Mo ghradh.” He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep, to escape from all of this.

He felt himself start drifting off and sighed with relief as he felt heavy again. He let sleep drag him under.

John waited and waited, biding his time, waiting until he was sure the man was asleep and then waiting longer. He finally cracked his eyes open, watching a few more minutes before daring to move at all. 

It was exhausting, painstaking work to get his left hand free, working the back of the restraint up over the damaged bar, keeping the metal of the buckle from clacking together and alerting Sherlock of his intentions. He had no awareness of the slow bleed that had started at his nose, hyper focused with his task. 

He felt a sudden jolt of elation and fear as he sprang his hand free, instantly reaching for his right hand, working the buckle loose, still cuffed on his left. His head was pounding by the time he pushed himself up, sitting slowly. He turned his focus to his monitor, pulling the plug from the wall to turn it off before tugging off the leads, working as fast as he was able now, ruthless ripping out his IV line, ignoring the way he was bleeding all over the damn place. 

_Out! Go! Run!_

He had no plan other than escape. His feet hit the floor and he bit his lip hard enough to split it as pain arced up his leg, looking down at the boot. It didn’t matter, he pushed himself up and moved as silently as he was able, tears running down his face as he forced weight on the leg; it was worth the pain to be silent. 

The door was cracked and he simply eased through it, hobbling across the hallway and ducking into an empty room to breathe and get his bearings. There was _no one_ there, it was an eerie sight. He caught the sign to a stairwell and gathered himself, banking on his flood of adrenaline to save him as he made a break for it, never looking back.

Sherlock bumped himself on the violin in his sleep and woke, muttering to himself. He set the violin over on the bedside table and looked over to check on John. His heart felt like it stopped. John was _gone._ Blood, there was blood... Sherlock sat up, trying to calm himself down. He couldn’t, too much blood, John was gone.

Something cracked inside and Sherlock just started screaming.

 

Mark, having taken up the very room John had temporarily harbored in, came up out of his bed and moved so fast his feet scarcely hit the floor in his effort to get to Sherlock. He flicked on the overheads, looking at Sherlock’s tear-streaked, shock-white face before John’s bloodied, empty bed. 

“Christ,” he growled, hitting the code button, ducking back into the hall and sweeping his eyes across it in a vain hope to see the man slumped in the corner. A nurse came running and he shouted at her to get security _right now_ as he dialed Greg and shouted for him to himself there get there the millisecond Greg answered the line, hanging up and going back to Sherlock. 

“Sherlock!” he shouted, elevating his voice over the man’s desperate screaming, “SHERLOCK STOP!” 

He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and shoved him back against the bed, worried he’d faint. A security guard poked his head in and he talked to him over his shoulder. “John Watson is missing. He’s injured and to be treated _gently_. Check the footage, make sure no one’s taken him, I want the hospital combed, he’s a war vet, don’t approach him, just page me,” he rattled off, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. 

“You have to calm down _right now_ or I’m going to sedate you. Sherlock! What _happened_?” He demanded as he grabbed Sherlock’s hands, looking him over for blood or signs of a struggle.

\--  
Greg flipped the car around as he called Molly, “Something’s happened, I don’t know, please go up there, Sherlock... I don’t _know_ Molly he was screaming. Yeah, Mark was there. Please be careful, I’m coming. I don’t know. I love you. Please be careful.”

He hung up the phone with his heart in his throat, forcing himself to drive slowly, calling the yard and letting them know he’d not be back in today. 

Molly hung up the phone with Greg and took off at a run. She sprinted up the stairs rather than wait for an elevator. She could hear Sherlock screaming as she slammed open the stairwell door. She was in the doorway after a moment. Mark was still trying to get Sherlock to calm down when she fairly jumped into the bed next to him and shook his shoulders, pushing Mark back.

“Sherlock!” She put her face close to his, wincing at the scream, his voice was going fast. She picked him up slightly “SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU STOP THAT THIS INSTANT! I MEAN IT!” She screamed in his face as she smacked him back down against the bed. Sherlock’s scream died in his throat and he blinked up at her in confusion. Molly was straddled him, panting.

Sherlock’s eyes were wild and he was struggling to breathe in any sort of normal fashion. Molly was looking down at him still gripping his shoulders, both of them trying to catch their breath. He finally turned his head to look at John’s bed and Molly shook him again, “No! You look at me. Look at me right now. Sherlock!” He looked back up at her, face crumpling as he reached up and dragging her to him. He buried his face against her neck even as she flailed, trying to stay mostly upright.

She sighed and slowly, gently untangled herself and sat up trying to move off of Sherlock. He wouldn’t let her go. “Sherlock, sweetheart, let me go... let me go and let’s get you comfortable. You need to tell us what happened.” Sherlock only tightened his grip on her and she winced. He finally whispered hoarsely, “I woke up and he was just gone... blood, Molly there’s blood and he’s _gone_.”

Molly was about to speak to him when his eyes rolled back and his grip loosened. She cursed and shook his shoulders. “Sherlock Holmes don’t you do this.” Her fingers were at his throat and she shook her head. “His pulse is way too high.” She was sliding off him and clearing the way for Mark. “I don’t... I deal with dead people!” she finally exclaimed as she backed off.

Mark moved to Sherlock’s side, pressing fingers to his pulse as he dragged an eyelid up. “Elevate his feet for me,” he said calmly, dropping the head of the bed down a bit, “get me a nurse in here.” 

He pressed his fingers to both sides of Sherlock’s neck, two fingers to each of his carotids, working small, slow circles. “Get a mask on him for me, Molly,” he asked as he tried to drop the panic in the room down. “Sherlock,” he called out, steady and even, “Sherlock, he’s going to be okay. Come on, Sherlock,” he kept calling, slow and steady. 

He’d managed to get his heart rate slowed down, at the very least. He left the head of the bed down, rolling him to his side with the mask in place. “Molly, can you watch him? John’s bleeding, surely he’s left a trail. I’m going to have a nurse get a line in Sherlock, I don’t want him leaving this room. Can you manage?”

Molly nodded, “I’ve got him. Go.” She was back to the head of the bed, gently combing through Sherlock’s hair with her fingers. She watched him as he stirred but didn’t quite come back around. She kept her voice soft, hand moving to rub his back, just soothing. She watched for the nurse, wondering how much hell they were going to have getting a line in him.

The nurse came in shortly after Mark left and Molly was soft spoken, “His veins have seen some abuse, might want to try a hand.” The nurse nodded, “Doctor warned me... thanks though, it’s a good thing to know.” Molly gently extended Sherlock’s arm for the nurse. The nurse was good. She had Sherlock prepped and the IV line in the vein before he could really stir. She was taping everything down when Sherlock’s eyes opened.

He was alarmed but Molly moved into his field of vision, “S’alright Sherlock, just getting you some fluids, you’re a bit out of it at the moment, yeah? Just rest, just rest.” His eyes closed as she combed through his hair, brain trying to recall what was going on but unable to. He opened his eyes and looked back to her, confusion written on his face. “It’s okay, it’s all okay, just a bit of an accident, okay? Just close your eyes.” She prayed he’d just lie there quietly and not question her. He let his eyes close again, hand without the line reaching for her. She held his hand gently, the other one combing through his hair.

The nurse hung the bag and set the drip on slow, planting herself nearby, just in case, until Mark came back.

Greg slammed the car into a blissfully close spot and tore out of the vehicle, calling Mark directly, who only gave him a location before hanging back up. He set his jaw and wondered if his nerves were ever, ever going to recover. 

Mark was busy tracking the increasingly heavy trail of blood from his own room to the south stairwell. “John?” He called up the stairs, and then down, sweeping the area for any signs of blood, which had suddenly stopped. Greg met him, panting and wild eyed. “What... the fucking hell... Mark?” he demanded as he gathered his breath. 

“John broke the damn bar on the guardrail and sprung loose. He’s bleeding and I have no idea why. Sherlock’s just gone round the bend. That’s all I’ve got. Security is on the cameras in case someone _took_ John, but I doubt that, given that he _fucking broke loose._ ” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going down, you’re going up. He’s somewhere in the building, he has to be. No way he just wandered out in a gown bleeding all over the place. Keep in mind he’s not getting any English. Jesus.”

Greg didn’t need any more guidance than that, taking off up the stairs. There wasn’t far to go until he hit the door to the roof, his stomach dropping at the sight of a bloodied handprint against the whitewash. 

He pressed the door open, turning his face away from the gusting freezing air before stepping out into the dark. He did not dare call out, walking silently until he could get a view of the area, stopping dead as he saw the small frame sitting at the edge of the building, legs dangling. 

He backed away, quietly sending a text to Mark. 

He’s on the fucking roof. -GL

Mark, several floors below, stopped his search to read the message, and then read it again before turning and booking it like hell back up the stairs. 

Greg was staring at John’s back, completely unsure how to approach this. The bloody man didn’t even understand English right now. How was he supposed to help. He raked a hand through his hair harshly and waited, keeping an eye on John. _Fuck, shit, damn._

He paced for a moment before he couldn’t keep away, suddenly divesting himself of his gun and jacket, despite the gusting wind. He took off everything threatening except his badge. He slowly approached John, silently moving across the rooftop. He very carefully climbed and sat like John on the edge, regretting looking down. He gently laid the badge between them.

He had no idea if John spoke French or not, it had never come up. He rather doubted it, but he tried. “Long day, yeah? Been kind of scary I’d imagine.”

John was past the point of shivering, so cold that he hardly felt it any longer. He heard the man at his side, sluggishly turning his head to look at him, his expression dull, lifeless, face a bloodied mess. Slowly he dropped his eyes to the shiny metal between them, reaching out stiffly, making a failed effort to pick it up, his grey fingers refusing to work. He shrugged slightly and gave it up, dragging his hand back to his lap. 

“F-French,” he whispered, teeth chattering only very slightly. He shook his head, no idea the meaning. “Police.”

He sighed and looked down, clearly unafraid. He reached out a hand and pointed to the ground below, and then back to himself. “Stood there once,” intending English, failing to Pashto. 

John looked back at the man, his eyes narrowed, the flutter of _you should know him_ at the back of his throbbing head. The cold helped dull the sharp pain. 

Greg switched to English, John had clearly not understood the French and he didn’t know Pashto, “You stood there, that’s what you’re saying? I remember. You watched a great man fall. That man is downstairs waiting on you John. _Christ,_ I wish you understood me.” Greg sighed and shifted over a bit, taking back up his badge, “I don’t know how many of these he’s swiped from me. Git...” Greg muttered into the freezing wind, starting to shiver as the cold seeped into his bones.

He looked over at John and nodded back toward the door on the roof, “It’s bloody cold out here, mate... sure you don’t want to go warm up for a bit? Nice cup of tea or coffee. Maybe some brandy?” He was rambling, just trying to keep John on the fucking roof and off the ground below.

John followed Greg’s eyes to the door before turning back to him slowly, blinking with exhaustion. He was sad as he shook his head again, wincing as his nose began to weep once more. He looked back down to the street, pulling in a deep breath. “Can’t,” he whispered, eyes closed against a fresh gust of wind, slipping into heavily accented English. “I don’t know what they want, but it doesn’t end well for me.”

He shivered hard, startled quite suddenly as Mark tactlessly exploded onto the roof. He shouted and jerked away from Greg, who’d managed closer to John than he’d realized. His teeth started chattering loudly from the shock, panic flaring away the hypothermia. “I don’t know anything!” he shouted, slipped back to Pashto, leaning closer to the edge, one hand out protectively, restraint dangling from his wrist. 

Greg cursed and held up his hands before reaching out and snagging fingers through the restraint. He yelled for Mark to _’just fucking help you goddamned idiot,’_ as he threw himself backwards onto the roof, yanking hard on John. He’d rather risk banging his head around and breaking him up here than splatting him on the sidewalk below. He was wrapping himself around John’s arm as best he could as he fell.

John was going to die, only now he’d not be going alone. He swallowed down the panicked scream and put it all in his fist, twisting hard as he was grabbed, throwing his shoulder down into the softest bit of flesh he could find, blind to his actions. John’s head was on fire, shards of glass breaking free and splintering through the matter. The pain made him sharp, honed in his last moments. 

Time slowed as he cracked his eyes open, vision washed red, a new threat stepping in over him. He grabbed the wrist that held the cuff on his own arm and wrenched it back with everything he had, kicking out sideways, taking the man at his front down before again turning on the officer who grabbed him. 

He drew back again, tears rolling down his face as pain and fear got the better of him, losing some of his coordination as his blows became frantic and desperate. His vision snapped out first in his left eye, and as his third blow was successfully deflected, in his right. 

Blinded and in agony, John cried out in terrified frustration, dropping down hard and going very still. “Fine. Fine!” 

Greg was still trying to breathe correctly from the shoulder John had driven into him. He scrambled to his feet though, huffing and panting. He wrapped an arm around under John’s shoulders, “Christ, John...” He dragged John’s arm around his own shoulders. Waiting to see if the man went ballistic on him again.

John was hauled up and he gasped with the feel of it, leaning away from the body at his side before his stomach heaved and he was violently ill. His knees gave out and he made a small, pained sound before regaining himself. 

Mark had recovered and was rushing to Greg’s side, cursing as he took the risk and simply picked John up. “I think he needs in surgery right the fuck now, can you go ahead of us?” He asked as he looked down at John, wishing he had better light, stomach dropping at how damn _cold_ John was. “Greg?”

Greg was moving, coughing as he went, “Come on, come on.” He fair charged across the roof, stopping only to scoop up the gun so no one else could find it. He snagged his jacket as he opened the door. He was on his phone to Molly, “Tell them, fuck he said surgery, I don’t know... Molly he’s freezing and _wrong_... Roof, on the goddamned roof, coming in.”

Molly was relaying Greg’s broken explanation to the nurse who was already heading out the door screaming for a team to meet them at the top floor, _now_.

Mark took a deep breath as he watched the neuro team whisk John away to Theatre, waiting until they were out of sight to turn back to Greg, both of them smudged with blood, Greg still nursing his side. 

“Want me to look at that?” he offered, a touch breathless, feeling a bit pale himself and he hardly knew these men. Greg...how that man was on his feet was beyond Mark. 

Greg looked down and blinked, “Uh, yeah, probably... yeah.” He shook his head and shivered, still chilled from sitting outside in shirtsleeves and trousers. “Christ, Mark... What are we going to do?”

Mark moved over to Greg, easing him to a chair. “ _We_ are going to look at your ribs, have a stiff drink, and go back up to sit with your girl and Sherlock. John’s intracranial pressures were through the roof, hopefully this will fix everything much, much faster for him. God, I can’t believe he still...all that damage and that bastard _still_ got loose, up to the roof, and a few good ones in on you.”

He was moving Greg’s shirt out of the way all the while, tisking at the sight as he leaned down to look, fingers touching the blooming bruise. 

Greg hissed in pain, “I’ll be alright, just, a drink, I could really use a drink. John Watson, my friend, has tried to kill me repeatedly lately because he’s cracked his nut. I think, yeah, just a drink.” Greg was nodding a bit and then shook his head, “Christ...” He batted at Mark’s hand and shoved his shirt back down and slid into his coat as he tried to warm back up.

“Bloody freezing up there. Madness.”

Mark leaned back and nodded, standing and patting Greg on his shoulder. “Come on then, you didn’t break anything.” He started them down the hall, towards the lounge where he’d first taken care of Greg, grabbing the bottle from under the sink and gathering mugs for them both. He tipped them each a measure, much more for Greg, and grabbed a blanket out of the warmer, handing that over as well. 

Greg stripped out of his coat and wrapped up in the blanket gladly, moaning as the warmth started seeping in, “God yes.” He picked up the mug and looked at Mark, his voice was suddenly serious, slightly hushed with about as much emotion as he was comfortable sharing. “For John and Sherlock, may something holy see them through this... whatever’s out there.”

Mark smiled and rose his mug as well, nodding his head and drinking to that. He pushed the blanket deeper against Greg, feeling extremely sorry for the bastard. “You’re a good man, Greg, truly.” 

Greg sighed and then drained his mug. He huffed as he snuggled into the blanket. “Better get to Molly, she’ll be worried sick by now... God knows what Sherlock’s doing. I don’t understand those two. Molly and Sherlock I mean. She fell all over him for years. Years... now it’s like she’s his bloody mother. I love her and Sherlock’s a good man... but I don’t understand them. The lot of them really...” He bit down on his tongue and shook his head. 

“Nevermind. This has just been a bit much. Molly... should go to her.” He looked down at Mark. “Thank you, for taking care of them. I know... I know I’d be okay. Lost friends on the force. But Molls...” He shook his head again. “They’re family she doesn’t have otherwise.”

 

Mark nodded, standing up after killing his drink in one go, glad to be off the clock for the time being. “She has a way with him, that’s for sure. Calms him down better than John, even. It’s amazing. The idea of Molly and Sherlock as a couple? Ech.” He shivered and offered his hand, helping Greg to his feet. “Fingers crossed Sherlock is calm.”

Greg accepted the help up and couldn’t help the laugh, “Oh, she was crazy about him. Blind stinking in love with him. Then I saw her in the dress that Christmas he broke her heart.” He left off the bit about having decided then and there he and his wife did not have it sorted, even before Sherlock helpfully added she was fucking the PE teacher. “Anyhow... apparently she’s been in contact with him even more than Mycroft while he was out. She helped him fake it all. Still won’t tell me how.” He wandered towards the door as they talked, heading down the hall, praying Sherlock was behaving.

Sherlock was awake, mostly. He hadn’t said much to Molly other than to ask after John. They’d had the same conversation five times now. 

“Where’s John?” 

“He’s just out for some tests, Sherlock.” She would soothe and comb through his hair.

“Okay...”

Two minutes later it would repeat. She was becoming increasingly alarmed by it.

Mark went to Sherlock’s side, standing between Sherlock and John’s bed. “Hey there, Sherlock. How are you feeling?” he asked calmly, paying close attention to the man’s eyes, already having taking in the concern painted clearly on Molly’s face. 

Sherlock looked up at him, “Where’s John?” Molly closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. “Sherlock, sweetheart, you’ve asked that six times now...” He frowned and shook his head, “I have not.” He insisted.

Molly shook her head again. “Okay, Sherlock, everything is alright.” She gently brushed fingertips over his forehead.

“Feel tired... Where’s John?”

“Right, then,” Mark said, holding up a hand to Molly and shaking his head. He knew this for what it was. “He’s going to be in surgery a while,” he said as he drew up a hearty sedative, “I’m just going to put him down a while, let him recuperate his nerves a bit.” 

He did not ask Sherlock permission. The man was not in his right mind, not capable of giving permission anyhow. He just slipped the needle into the line and pushed the dose, keen on getting him set in on the monitors soon. 

Sherlock looked confused as the drug hit and he faltered, “John?” He reached for the other bed even as he fell asleep, hand clutching the side of his own bed. Molly teared up as she looked around the room. She finally sat down heavily in the recliner, burying her face in her hands. 

“How long is John expected to be in surgery? How badly is Sherlock going to be and for how long, approximately, given the circumstances and can someone, anyone, just fully explain what the _fuck_ is going on around here?” Her voice was calm, but she was starting to seethe and right now she was placing the blame for John’s escape on Mark. It was unfair and she knew it, but she was so angry seeing her family like this.

Mark set about working open Sherlock’s shirt, keeping busy as Molly peppered him with questions. He pulled open the bedside drawer, fetching out monitor pads, taking to the task of hooking the sedated man up as he began to explain. 

“John is an impressively resourceful soldier. You can go over to his bed and see how he managed to loosen that one bar, a tiny, narrow, bit, and free a single hand, which let him completely free himself. His intracranial pressures must be incredibly high, he’d blown his left pupil by the time I handed him over, I doubt he could see. His pressures creeping up like that would not show on MRI or CAT scans, which looked better. The bleeds had stopped. He seemed to be improving. His in surgery to put in drains, Molly, hopefully that will drop the pressure. A shunt will keep it from building back up. I have no idea how he will be when he wakes up from that, but he’s going to recover in a room next to Sherlock. I can’t imagine trying this with them seperate.”

He took a deep breath and fixed the leads to the screen, watching the feed for a moment before addressing Sherlock. 

“This one is having a classic nervous breakdown. Psychosis. No idea how long. Could be over when he wakes up, could be permanent. Could be anything in between. Every man has his limit.” 

He finally turned back to face her after clicking the rails into place, clearly ready to take whatever lashing she was ready to dish, his eyes flicking to Greg apologetically before returning gently to Molly. 

Molly’s mouth formed into a hard line as she stood. She pushed a finger into Mark’s chest. “I don’t care who you are in this hospital, “ of course she knew he had clout, she knew most of the politics in the entire hospital and half the damn police force. No one paid attention to Molly. “You had better fix them both or you’ll be in _my_ office.” She drew herself up fully and stalked past the both of them. “I’m going to get a coffee, leave me alone, Greg.”

She was gone and out the door leaving Greg standing there fumbling for something to say before he finally spat out, “Did my girlfriend just threaten to kill you?”

Mark blinked after her. “Uh, yeah, she did. And of you lot, I’m the most afraid of her.”

He shook his head and took to stripping John’s bed, not at all keen for Sherlock to wake up and see the blood there again. He stopped and crouched at the side John had worked loose. “Did you get a fucking look at this? Good lord, never seen anything like it. I can’t imagine anyone holding this man _captive_.”

Greg’s words surprised him as they tumbled out, “I think he killed a man once... Well, here, I mean. For Sherlock. First night I met him.” Greg remembered the night well, remembered Sherlock stopping in his explanation as he looked at John’s bed. “He’s, John’s brilliant.”

“It was, well, Sherlock was in danger, the man was a serial killer. I don’t want to know... but I _do_ know, you know what I mean? Christ, shouldn’t have told you that...”

Mark stood up and waved a hand in the air, “Distressed words from a distressed man, I didn’t hear anything,” he said easily, settling in the chair beside Greg, pushing the blanket closer to him. “I can’t believe he was functioning practically naked in that temperature. Just crazy. You alright? I did write you something for nerves, you can take it if you need it. I mean, you’ve drank but, I’m not saying anything.” 

He turned his entire focus on Greg then, taking the man in, recounting the roof. “I’m sorry I stormed out there like that...never had this sort of excitement, just...was in a hurry to help. What you did there was impressive.”

Greg shrugged and shook his head, “I just. I had to get him off that ledge. I couldn’t let him jump from the same spot Sherlock did. I couldn’t let him jump at all. He was coming back around some, speaking English. It’s not your fault, it’s a high pressure situation. I’ve been trained, you haven’t, well not that kind of pressure. I don’t know how you handle this shit honestly. I can pick family members off the floor after a murder... but this?” A shudder ran through Greg.

He looked over at Sherlock, “You think he’ll come out of it? Honestly? Or have we lost him?”

 

Mark turned his attention to Sherlock along with Greg. “Well, that’s hard to say. I mean, what I’ve seen from him as far as symptoms are not unique. There is no indication he won’t come out of this. He’s...his mind does not work as other minds do, and yet in this, he’s behaving perfectly _normal_ in an _abnormal_ way, if that makes any sense. He was terrified of losing John, and then he lost John. I’m hoping that having him back in the room will bring him out of it, at least partially. I mean, hell, if John’s still stuck in Pashto when he wakes up...that man gets so frightened sometimes. Sherlock has been the only person to get him calm at all. I fucking hope he comes out of it.”

Greg nodded, “Earlier... I think Sherlock frightened John. John did not understand English, at all... He appeared calm but the monitor was going nuts. Heart rate I mean. Molly and I left and Sherlock was going to play. Now... Sherlock’s music can be, interesting, at times. Downright disturbing. He was about mad as a hatter when we left but... I don’t know, it’s _Sherlock._ ” Greg shrugged in desperation.

Mark’s lips pressed to a thin line. “Yeah, that may be on me. He was...agitated when John was not John. I didn’t think he’d take it out on the poor man but...Sherlock’s under a lot of stress. Perhaps I should not have left them on their own. I’m starting to see the intent his brother had, as ham-fisted as it was. I don’t know, Greg, I’m bending all the rules here with these men. I can’t imagine having them apart, and perhaps that’s the problem. You know them better, what are your thoughts?”

Greg ran a hand through his hair, “I think separating them would be worse, but.. maybe. Christ. I don’t know. I can see keeping Sherlock pretty much out until John comes back around, but if John comes back screaming in Pashto and the only damn thing that calms him is Sherlock. What are you going to do? I think, I think John being back, even just bodily, might snap Sherlock back out of this. Mycroft isn’t a stupid man. Well, he’s childish and stupid when it comes to Sherlock but I think, despite what he was doing as far as retaliation went, in the end, he meant well. I called and yelled at him earlier.” He admitted sheepishly.

“Been friends a long time. Been pulling Sherlock out of the gutter a long time off and on. S’how I met Mycroft.” Greg had been young when he first fished a barely out of his teens Sherlock up out of a doorway. He’d been smart enough to recognize the expensive clothes and finally got Mycroft’s name out of Sherlock. Greg smiled a bit at the memory, “Always was a lanky fucker, that one. Anyhow, he told me in detail, what he tried to do. I told him not to be such an idiot and hung up on him. But, Sherlock definitely needs something. I think keeping him here, sedating as needed but close to John is probably the best bet, unless one of them goes ballistic. But I’m just a copper, what do I know?”

“Let’s have Molly weigh in on it. Sherlock was...I hate to say it but he was… _seemed_ more afraid of being admitted to psych than losing John, even. Close, but damn, you should have seen the man. Toss up, really. I can’t put him there, he’ll kill everyone, and I’m not kidding in the slightest. Well hell, I’m sure you know that. I’m worried about Sherlock, I am, I’ve just got John at the front for now. He’s on his own outside of Sherlock. The whole thing is a mess.”

He set his focus on Sherlock’s monitor. “You spoke to Mycroft, then. Hmm. And he’s...calmer? More reasonable? He _terrified_ Sherlock and near sent John into arrest with that stunt of his.”

“Mycroft’s been threatened with his mother, myself, Molly, Sherlock, and you... I think he’s going to stay down for a bit. Might even make things a bit easier on us. Money talks and all that.” Greg hummed softly.

Molly poked her head back in the room, bringing two coffees with her. She gave one to each man and looked between them, “That’s as much apology as either of you deserve. What are you talking about? You look serious.”

“Hmm? Oh, what the hell to do with these two. Separate them or not?” Greg answered as he clutched the warm coffee and then took a sip. God, it was awful but it was warm. Apology his ass, he knew Molly, this was revenge.

“Absolutely not, are you off _your_ nut!? Keep Sherlock sedated if you have to, but _Christ!_ Don’t separate them. Gits.”

Molly was still definitely pissed at everyone.

Mark pointed to John’s bed, “Seems that may have been a direct result of Sherlock scaring John out of his wits, earlier today. That’s the only reason the question has even been presented, Molly. Greg mentioned that Sherlock was...not exactly on form when John didn’t know who he was, earlier. I’ve bent every rule in the book to keep these two together. We,” he pointed between Greg and himself, “are not the enemy here. Your man here has been beaten to hell for the pair. I know this must be horrifying for you, Molly, but Greg...he’s doing his best, and that’s a damned good effort.”

He was out of line, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stand to see the poor bastard catch anything else today. 

She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Mark, “Oi, you, shut it. You failed to keep John safe, you failed Sherlock, and you have _hurt my family._ I know you didn’t mean to. Jesus, I know, but _damn it._ I know John’s impossible and Sherlock is...”

“Awake.”

Molly froze. She looked alarmed and then slowly turned to look at Sherlock, eyes flicking between him and the IV. He looked fuzzy, like he couldn’t quite focus, “Addict... obvious.” He looked at the three sitting there and then to the empty bed, eyes narrowing. “John?” His voice was wavering, in that moment he was truly terrified they were waiting to tell him John was dead. He hadn’t really caught what they’d been saying, only Molly’s ire.

Mark held up a hand to Molly to keep her silent, shaking his head at her as he got to his feet. He moved to Sherlock’s side, eyes flicking to the monitor, wondering if this was just a temporary breakthrough. “What’s the last you remember, Sherlock?” he asked calmly, looking back as Greg made a sudden noise, trying to catch his attention. He narrowed his eyes and held up a finger to him, missing whatever it was he was trying to say. 

Sherlock tried to filter through his mind. So much was fuzzy. What was wrong with his brain? He shook his head as he filtered through out loud, “I broke Mycroft’s nose... he was going to... Oh Jesus, tell me he didn’t...” Sherlock’s heart rate started skyrocketing as he began to panic, thinking Mycroft had successfully separated them. He couldn’t get past that. His mind started slamming shut doors as he tried to remember if there was anything else. There was something there, something _important.._

Mark had the mask off the wall and into Sherlock’s hands, trying to get the man to hold it to his own face. “No, he didn’t. You are not here officially, and you are free to leave at any time, Sherlock,” he assured. Greg made the sound again and Mark turned back even as he was pressing Sherlock’s hands to his face, watching with dawning dred as Greg tugged at his own bloody shirt, realizing neither of them had changed yet. Perfect. 

Sherlock was in knots already, and the room was dark. He may not notice. “Breathe, Sherlock, slow down and breathe, you are not locked in here. Molly, will you open that door for me please?” he asked, hoping an exit would calm Sherlock down. “I’ve given you a sedative for anxiety, as you and I discussed earlier, that’s all, that’s why you feel drugged.”

Sherlock was breathing into the mask, holding it against his face with both hands as he looked around. Molly opened the door for him and light spilled into the room from the hallway. He looked back up at Mark and then over to Greg, noting who all was in the room with him. 

His eyes narrowed as his drugged mind started observing. He let out a small whine as he noted the blood and struggled to keep his breathing even, “Mark? Greg?” it was a loaded question. He was starting to shake and he finally bit out, far more forcefully than even he thought he had in him, “Where, is, John?” His teeth were clenched as he fought against anger and panic.

“Yeah. Okay.” Mark said, taking the seat next to Sherlock’s bed. “Okay. He’s in surgery, Sherlock. About an hour in. I expect another two to go, at the very least,” he offered, trying to keep the details to a minimum, his eyes flicking between Sherlock and the monitors. 

“Christ, no, go away, let me sleep.” Sherlock was both relieved and alarmed all at once that John was in surgery. He was safe, but not. He waved a hand at them and clung to the mask with the other one. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. Ignoring the people in the room with him as he tried to lull himself back under.

Molly chewed on her lip and moved to Sherlock. She gently started running her fingers through his hair. Sherlock visibly relaxed after a few moments and was soon back asleep. 

Mark got up and went across the hall, motioning for Greg to join him if he wanted, flicking on the light to the room he’d been using. Fuck all he was tired. He’d not seen his wife in too long, and he was rapidly feeling out of his depth here. His fingers flew down the buttons of his shirt, yanking it off, fishing in his personal bag for a new one. He was just tugging it on when Greg came in. 

“That,” he pointed to Sherlock's room, “was fucking weird,” he said with a tired huff, buttoning up the clean shirt. “I’m guessing he won’t remember it, anyhow.” Then he cleared his throat and donned his most professional expression. “Listen, Greg. Mycroft put me on retainer for these two, but Molly has legitimate points. There are other facilities that may be better equipped to care for these men. John got loose on my watch. I’m more than happy to make recommendations, if you would rather someone else take charge of them.”

Truth was, he felt fucking terrible about the entire business and was not keen on finding Sherlock on the roof as well, any time soon. God help him if that happened. 

Greg shook his head, “Don’t... Look, Molly is exceedingly protective when it comes to those two. If you think you can’t do this, I understand. But you’ve had a pretty good handle on things so far. When’s the last time you slept?” Greg questioned, looking at the man.

“I can always get Mycroft to spring for a rotation of people to sit outside the door. My people, not his. If he’s willing to pay some people on the side, privately... Well, some of the boys could probably use the money. They all like John. Sherlock might not like it, but I think we could drill it in his head that it would be best for John. Just a bit of extra warning if he slipped out of his bed again.” Greg rubbed a hand in his hair and then over his face. 

“That,” He jerked his head back towards the room, “Was Sherlock, by the way. Ignores anything he doesn’t like. Told one of my techs to turn his back one time because I quote, ‘you’re dropping the IQ of the entire street.’ That in there was more Sherlock than I’ve seen since he came back if we’re being honest. Prat.

Mark blinked, and then blinked again before cracking a wide smile and clapping his hands. “Fantastic! Well, if that’s Sherlock as usual then we are onto something. Encouraging. Alright. I’m grabbing a bit of rest. I slept earlier, and I’m well accustomed to very little sleep. I like the idea of extra eyes. You think Molly can watch Sherlock for now? I need at least an hour. John...he could be in any range of conditions to the same as we’ve seen, to, well, worst case he’s vegetative, I’m afraid. It’s all over the place. He was hard up when we found him. And that struggle didn’t do him any favors. Ah well, he’s got a great team on him.”

Greg blinked at him, “God man, sleep. Do you hear yourself?” There was soft amusement in Greg’s voice. “Yeah, I’m sure she’d be happy to keep an eye on him. Get some rest. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to the lounge and stretch out. Get another warm blanket? I’m... I’m fucking exhausted I’m not even going to try to tough that out. This has been hell. Molls has a set of lungs on her, she can scream down the house. Er, Well I mean, if there’s trouble.” Greg coughed, “Too tired, I’m going now... don’t tell her I said that.”

Mark cracked a laugh. “Right, yeah. Go to sleep, plenty of warm blankets there in the heater where I got your last one. I’ve no doubt Molly will shout the roof down if she needs to. My door will be open, and I’ll come collect you when John is out of surgery and back up here, okay? I’ll get you sooner if there is a need, but otherwise, I’ll let you rest.”

He took a step forward and squeezed Greg’s shoulder, tipping a nod to him before stepping back and toeing off his shoes, settling in for the night. 

Greg wandered back in long enough to make sure Molly was fine. She shooed him off to sleep. Greg did not argue and went and dragged two blankets out. He was asleep almost immediately, finally warm and resting.

Molly spent the next couple of hours gently soothing Sherlock any time he stirred. She gently hummed to him as she read a book on her phone. He came to one time, and dryly asked why she was butchering his favorite tune. She’d lightly smacked him in the head and told him to go back to sleep. He’d obliged her and she’d gone right back to her ‘butchering’.

She turned her phone off and stowed it in her pocket when she heard the commotion in the hallway. The nurses were prepping for John’s return from surgery. The boys had managed nearly four hours sleep by the time John was actually out of surgery and ready to be transported back to his room. She heard a nurse across the hall, gently telling Mark that John was ready to come back.

John’s fingers were curled tight around the bars of his bed, teeth grit, tears rolling down the sides of his face as he was moved. He understood something had happened and he’d been treated in a hospital. He knew he was in _fucking pain_ , knew his eyes were not working, and that the language around him was foreign. 

He also knew the staff had a habit of holding his hand, of settling cold cloths over his forehead and pressing hydrated oxygen to his face when panic gripped him in his confusion and he was sure he couldn’t breathe. Wherever the hell he was, he was in friendly hands.

He was also aware -a bolt of fear knocking hard against him each time- that when he opened his mouth to speak, Pashto slipped over his lips when English should be on his tongue. They couldn’t understand him, and he could not understand them. So, blind to everything save the faint faid of light to dark as they moved him down the halls, he held onto the bed and bit back the urge to sob with his pain, breathing fast and hard through his teeth. 

Mark was out of his bed the moment Molly woke him up, grateful for her gentle method, feeling much refreshed. He met them in the hall, surprised to find John not only _awake,_ but breathing on his own and with his entire skull intact. He’d expected them to remove a portion of it, at least. He hung back with the neurologist as the surgical staff shifted him into the room, setting him up in the bed he was currently in, moving the old one out. 

Once he was clear on the specifics, he thanked the surgeon and went inside, moving right up to John, taking his hand without thinking as he watched his reading on the more complex monitors, one that gave an Intracranial Pressure feed as well. He had yet to put any of his focus on Sherlock. 

Molly was standing at the head of Sherlock’s bed. She’d managed to dash and get Greg and was playing with Sherlock’s hair, waking him gently, slowly as she moved herself back out of the way of everything going on. “Sherlock, sweetheart, John is back. Wake up.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as she said ‘John’ and he reached up and yanked the mask down, “John?” He shifted himself to the side suddenly, pressing to the railing on the side of the bed closest to John, his monitors fluttering with activity for a moment. He couldn’t see, Mark was in the way. Molly gently pressed Sherlock back down from where he was trying to sit up, “No, Sherlock, stay down, give them a moment.”

Sherlock chewed on his lip but acquiesced. He knew a hand landed on his leg and his eyes drifted. Just Greg, reassuring. Something was wrong. He could remember something was wrong, something had happened... But what was it?

Mark narrowed his eyes and called in the neurologist that was signing papers. “Can he not see?” he asked as he plucked a penlight out of his pocket, touching John’s face, whispering gently as the man flinched away hard from his hand. He used his thumb to pull John’s eyelid up higher, flicking the light across his pupil, watching the sluggish reaction. 

“Can’t tell, doesn’t look like it. He’s not tracking, but he’s not exactly got a history of cooperation.”

John’s fingers tightened on the bars, his breathing kicking up under the mask. “Please,” he whispered, the light painful in the otherwise blissful darkness. He didn’t understand what was being said as he tried to move away from whoever was touching him. God his head was _killing him_. 

 

Sherlock was glaring. He snapped, “What is going on here? John? Are you okay? Talk to me...” He tried to get up again and Molly reached over and yanked his shoulders back to the bed, “Sherlock...” She said in warning. He half growled at her and Greg put a bit of pressure on his leg, “Come off it, Sherlock,” he said, “We’re here to help, you know that.” Sherlock murmured and shook his head at Greg, not believing him.

He shrugged Molly’s hands off and sat up rapidly. _Oh, gods_ he thought, _that was a mistake_. He swayed and Greg put a hand out to steady him. He bit down on his lip, pain grounding him for a moment. His heart monitor was slowly kicking up.

Mark moved the light away and held his fingers over John’s face, calling his name, “John?” he said loudly, snapping his fingers to get his attention, frowning as John’s eyes only turned in the vague direction of his voice. “Yeah, he can’t see. John can you understand me?”

The neurologist spoke up again, closing up his chart and handing it to one of the nurses. “No, he can’t. And he’s off in Pashto every time he speaks. I only know a word or two. We can get a translator, but I’m told Mr. Holmes here is fluent, so we’ve held off for now. I’ll let you make that call. He has left sided weakness at the moment as well. Seized on us twice, minor, watch for that but, compared to his measures from three days ago he seems improved. Pressures are down,” he motioned to the monitor, “page me if that creeps over 21.”

With that, the neurologist left, his staff following along. John’s attention was shifting from person to person in the room, his heart racing, trying to get any sort of handle on what the fuck was going on. He adjusted his sweating palm on the bar and waited until it was completely quiet before trying to break through his desperate breathing. 

“Please...this _hurts_.”

Sherlock was rattling the railing, “Let me go to him, he’s in pain.” His voice was just shy of desperate as he heard John’s voice. He spoke quickly, gently, answering John in Pashto, “Where does it hurt, love?” He glared at Greg and shook the rail again, as though he could bully the man into it immediately. He snapped his eyes back to John..

John’s entire, darkened world ground to a halt. He stopped entirely, holding his breath, going very still as he both understood the words for the first time since waking, and instantly placed the voice. 

“Sh...Sherlock?” his own voice was small, hardly over a whisper as he turned his face slowly toward the sound, brows knit as he tried to get his blistering mind to function. 

It was a completely wasted effort, nothing coming through other than the simple fact that there was no other person on the planet who sounded like _that_. He _cracked,_ his breathing catching before his face fell and he let go of the bars, blindly reaching in the direction he’d heard him, calling his name again desperately, forgetting anyone else was there. “Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s heart kicked up at the desperation in his voice and he attempted to crawl over the rail before Greg bodily shoved him back and dropped it. He shook his head and gently helped him down, Molly grabbing lines to make sure he didn’t yank the monitor leads off or pull his drip out. He was trembling as Greg helped him over and held on to him.

Sherlock’s hand was in John’s in an instant. “I’m here, I’m here, John, where does it hurt? What do you remember?” His voice was soft, shaking. He couldn’t remember why John had left the room. He turned in question to Mark. 

His thumb stroked the back of John’s hand with his thumb, “I’ve got you,” he reassured once more.

John simply broke down, unable to speak, dragging a hand up to his heavily bandaged head, gripping Sherlock as hard as he could manage, which, on the side Sherlock had a hold of, was not very impressive. 

Mark crouched beside Sherlock, his hands laced together between his knees. “Sherlock, what has he said to you?” he asked gently, watching John’s monitors as everything elevated with the man’s wrenching cries. 

Greg had put himself directly next to Molly, having an exceedingly difficult time watching John in such a state. He slipped his hand inside of hers and diverted his attention to some spot on the floor, wrung out and longing for a drink and that heated blanket, feeling as though he’d never properly warmed himself back up. The damn surgeon hadn’t even bothered to properly clean John up, there was still blood pooled in the man’s ears, clinging to the sides of his nose and the corners of his lips, threaded in the creases of his eyes. He cleared his throat and squeezed Molly’s hand, wishing he could do something more. 

Molly squeezed Greg’s hand gently, leaning into him and kissing his cheek tenderly. She watched the two of them sadly. Everything was going so wrong for them.

“He _hurts_. He was saying ‘Please, this _hurts_.’ Nothing else right now.” He switched back to Pashto, “John, can you tell me how you’re feeling? Please?” He drew John’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it, just holding the hand there.

Mark was already on his feet again, digging through John’s chart and swiftly reading what had been given to him. “I’ll be right back, tell him I’m going to fix it, I’ll be right back,” he said as he rushed out of the room after something more efficient than morphine. 

John was doing his best to pull Sherlock to him, hardly able to catch his breath for how much pain he was in. He managed a sniffling breath and tried to answer Sherlock’s question. “Like I’m _dying,_ ” he gasped, shifting as though he wanted to roll closer to Sherlock and crying out as the change in position shocked white-hot pain across his skull. He whimpered at the mercy of his body and froze in position, clinging to Sherlock. “I don’t understand anyone but you.”

“Still, my love, be still. You, it’s Pashto, all you understand is Pashto. I don’t know why. They’re working on it. It’s okay. Mark, he’s getting you something for the pain. He said he’s going to fix it.” Sherlock fumbled with the side of the new bed and was finally able to get it down. He laid against John, one arm wrapping about his waist, head nestled against John’s side, still holding his hand. “I’m here, I’m here. I promise. I can’t do much else right now, but I’ve got you.” He hadn’t realized he’d been sitting in a chair by the bed until now. Tears leaking down his face.

“St. Bart’s, we’re at St. Barts.” he added finally, unsure of what to offer up in the way of information. 

John grabbed hold of whatever part of Sherlock he could reach, shaking hard, accepting what Sherlock said. Mark was back swiftly, much to Greg’s personal relief. He’d had to catch himself twice from squeezing Molly’s small hand overly tight. 

“Sherlock, tell him this will help, just one second,” Mark said calmly as he slipped the needle into John’s line, powerful narcotic flowing into John’s veins. 

John didn’t need to be told as the effect came nearly instantly. He cried out in relief, his muscles relaxing, breathing slowing down swiftly, tears shifting from agony to blissful release. “Thank you, oh...oh...thank you,” he whispered over and over, clinging to Sherlock, chest hitching. 

Mark capped the needle and dropped it into the red box before moving his attention to Sherlock, watching the man shaking apart beside John. He put his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned down, whispering to him. “John had an accident, Sherlock, and he went to surgery. I think we’ve found the source of the problem, and I think he will get better from here out. You can stay right where you are. Do you want something for your nerves?”

Sherlock tilted his head so he could see Mark, “I can’t remember...” He sounded heartbroken. He knew John was hurt, knew it was going to be okay, probably. But he just couldn’t really hang on to anything that was going on. When had he told John he loved him? Wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere? Doing something?

“He says thank you, by the way. Something, something to calm me down? Heart feels like it’s in my throat, chest is too tight. Yeah, something like that would be good. I... I used to, it doesn’t always work.” his breathing hitched as he held out an arm, ashamed of the scarring that was visible in a few places to the trained eye. He dropped his gaze back to the mattress, leaning into John some for comfort. He’d forgotten he had a drip line in already.

Mark set a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Sherlock. It will come back, don’t fight with it,” he whispered before looking up at Molly and pointing to a pre-drawn syringe setting beside Sherlock’s bed, asking silently for her to hand it over. 

He took it and touched his hand to Sherlock’s offered arm, gently rolling it back to Sherlock’s side before taking the hand with the line in it and slipping the sedative in there. “You’re okay, Sherlock. Just stay with John.”

He pulled the railing back up behind Sherlock and tugged a blanket over him, independent of John’s. He took to checking over the position of both their wires and lines, ensuring nothing was in danger of crimping off, walking around and moving Sherlock’s monitor closer to John’s bed. He pulled the recliner over and settled down on John’s side of the bed, intent on keeping a close eye. 

“You okay there, Greg?” He asked after a moment, “Molly?”

Sherlock shifted around gently, tucked up against John as the sedative hit him, dragging him down somewhere barely conscious. He was aware that it was John beside him, but not much beyond that at the moment. That was enough. He was relaxed finally, soaking up having John so near him. 

Molly nodded and wrapped an arm around Greg gently, “I think, maybe I need to take him home.” Greg shrugged as though to say ‘what am I going to do, argue with her?’ 

She smiled softly, “I’m going to take him home and come back if you need me. My shift wasn’t supposed to be over for hours yet. So, I’m good to go if you need me here. This one though, home, and rest.” She looked at Greg as if daring him to contradict her. He merely smiled. 

Mark smiled at them and settled back into the recliner, turned so that he could watch the monitors, both of his patients dropping off into sleep. He was looking forward to a small bit of calm at the very least. “Get some rest, Greg, I won’t call you unless it’s an emergency that can’t be handled without you.” He promised, glad the man had someone looking out for him. 

Molly smiled and gently dragged Greg out with her. Stopping by long enough to gently caress Sherlock’s hair, “Rest sweetheart.” Greg smiled watching her. He still didn’t understand that relationship but he wasn’t going to push it. She very much loved him and Sherlock very much loved John and that’s all Greg needed to know.

Sherlock had sighed in his sleep at Molly’s touch, comforted. His hand tightened slightly on John’s hip as he slept, keeping the man close, unwilling to let go even in his addled and drugged state.

Mark himself ended up dozing off, the monitors set to trip alarms at very low levels of elevation for John, and troubling levels for Sherlock. Hours passed without issue, both men thankfully quiet and still.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Largely unedited at time of posting. We'll go back over it. Sorry guys we've just been exceedingly busy, so here's a bit of unedited to hold you over?

Mark woke when the IV monitor blipped at him to change the bags out, the sound pulling John awake. Whatever form of ‘awake’ he was capable of without his sight. 

He shifted and began speaking, narrating his dreams, not panicked, just, not present. 

“Eleven on the west bank, I have Peters. Massive damage to the lower left leg, requesting evac. Heavy fire. Eyes off,” he rattled easily, functional Pashto as though he were on his radio, collected and steady. He went silent for a while, frowning as though waiting for a response. 

“Over.”

Mark watched him as he hung the bag, curious as to what he was saying so collected. “John?” 

John’s attention directed to his name easily and he turned his head, wincing slightly, fingers tightening on Sherlock, who he believed to be Peters in his state of confused waking. He took a slow, deep breath, one hand sliding across the bed, recalling. 

“I’m in London, aren’t I?” he asked carefully, one hand going to Sherlock’s head. “I’ve got Sherlock here.” All Pashto, but he was calm, as aware as he could be. 

Sherlock slowly came awake while John was talking. He was trying to clear his head when John’s hand rested on it. He hummed in relief as the words washed over him. He looked up to Mark sleepily as he spoke Pashto to John first, gently, “London, I’ve got you...” He switched to English, he’s asking if he’s in London, telling you that I’m, me.” 

Sherlock, for his part, still had no clue what was going on. He knew John was hurt and that he, himself was in the hospital, but he had no idea why. He nuzzled into John again.

John’s fingers thread through Sherlock’s curls, one hand dropping to his back. He was calm. A low hum of pain running through him but nothing he couldn’t manage. He was warm, and obviously safe, and Sherlock was with him. This was all the data he required at the moment, even with his vision snuffed out; Didn’t matter. 

“Is he okay?” He tried to ask Mark of Sherlock, not realizing he was still in Pashto, carrying on trying to soothe Sherlock, who he sensed was unsettled, somehow. 

Sherlock muttered at John, “I’m always okay...” He looked back up at Mark, “He’s asking if _I’m_ okay...” Sherlock sounded indignant, almost offended at the thought of not being okay. He was steadfastly ignoring the fact that _he couldn’t remember_ what the hell he was doing here. A fragment hit him, forgetting the time that had passed, “I jumped and it went wrong didn’t it?” He was looking at Mark with wide eyes.

Mark winced slightly, turning his attention to Sherlock. “Oi mate, went way back, didn’t you? No, no, you are physically sound. That was... about nineteen months ago, now. You’ve hit a fair bit of stress and your mind is shutting you out for a while is all, you’re alright.”

He did not offer more, would not unless Sherlock asked him. He turned his focus to John. “Can you tell him I’m going to touch him, just a little exam, I’ll not hurt him,” John was aware at the moment, but he’d rather not panic him again. 

Sherlock looked surprised and his mind struggled to make connections. Firing here and there, glimpses of a jungle, his brow furrowed in confusion before he shook it off and spoke to John gently, “He’s going to examine you now, doesn't want to startle you. Needs to touch you, love.”

There it was again, why was that word slipping so easily from him? _Nineteen months_. The words rattled around in his head. The Fall was coming back with renewed clarity. _This is my note_. John’s hand on his wrist, desperately trying to find a pulse, Molly leaving out to tell John Sherlock was gone. Plane, Sherlock was drawn inward for the moment as he remembered getting off the plane in Germany, then it fizzled away.

John ignored Mark as he touched him, feeling Sherlock go stiff in his arms. He cursed under his breath, loathing not being able to see him. “Sherlock? What’s happened? What’s wrong? I can’t see you please talk to me. Sherlock?” 

He shook him very gently, scritching at his head, trying to call his focus. 

Mark watched, curious, but did not do anything to interfere, actually backing away a bit to watch the pair. 

Sherlock leaned into the scritching, voice coming back Gaelic though, “Don’t stop. Needed this for so long.” He tilted his head up, chin lifting as he moved his head under John’s fingers. He puzzled over the language for a moment and frowned, “No, that’s not right... is it? Comfort, trauma, stress.” He rambled in English before his eyes snapped back open. “John, Pashto, hospital.”

He nuzzled into John’s side again, voice ever so slightly muffled but strong, clear, Pashto once more. “Don’t stop, please. I’ve missed you so much. I don’t understand why. I’m here. I can’t- I’m missing _months_. Over a year.” He took in a breath, “The fall, Germany and then here. When did we? I mean- we sorted this, obviously.”

John’s hands stilled for a moment before carrying on again, gentle and steady. “No clue,” he whispered back, relieved to understand Sherlock again. He went quiet, struggling to master the spark of fear in his gut, focusing on Sherlock against him. 

Mark settled back down in his chair and started taking notes. He watched them, interested in the linguistic element between the men. Sherlock’s especially. John’s had a targeted reason but Sherlock’s was harder to define. He wanted to keep notes, wanted to have record of this for later. 

Sherlock reached up and drew John’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly, “I’m okay, it will come back. Mark says it’s stress. I think I might be trying to think too much.” He laughed softly at that. “Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes thinking too much.” He wiggled slightly in the bed, squirming up until he could press a kiss to John’s jaw before settling back in.

“That, I don’t even know where it came from. It was _right_ though.” He knew Mark’s name, recognized him, remembered punching Mycroft, dear gods, he’d been ready to actually kill him.

John curled his fingers in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and clung to him. “I wish I could see you,” he whispered, trying to keep close without moving his head. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just glad you are here. Please stay here.”

Mark was on his feet as a monitor jumped. The men were tugging on their leads, shifting the wires. He slipped a hand between them and untangled the lines, calming the alarms before they set off a chain reaction, lingering close in case they shifted again. 

Sherlock frowned, speaking to Mark in English, “His vision?” He stroked John’s hip with his thumb, reassuring John gently in Pashto, “I love you.” He let out a slow breath, his chest felt too tight again as John’s words washed over him. He couldn’t _see_. He bit his lip and nuzzled John. “Not going anywhere. They’ll have to drag me out.”

Mark shook his head, “Too soon to tell,” he replied gently, “his eyes are fine, it’s in his brain, just like the language. I’m assuming it will resolve, but that’s all I’ve got is my assumptions.”

He touched Sherlock’s shoulder gently. “One day at a time, Sherlock. He’s okay.”

John smiled gently at Sherlock, relaxing a bit, resuming trailing his fingers along his back and down his spine, trying to comfort him. “You’re too thin,” he whispered, touching his ribs, “make sure you eat.”

Sherlock nodded to Mark as he spoke to John, “I- the jungle. I’ve been eating here though. Mark, I think, yeah take away plates. I-I think I relapsed... Oh, god, John, I did.” Sherlock was slowly gaining pieces at both ends and his heart rate was kicking up, breathing quickened as waking in the gutter over and over flashed through his mind. “Oh god. I- no. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t... I don’t know why.”

“Sherlock,” John called out to him, shaking him gently, “slow down, Sherlock, it’s okay. It’s all okay, Sherlock, it’s fine, slow down,” he was tugging at Sherlock’s clothes before letting him go and reaching just for his face, sweeping this thumbs along his cheekbones. “Please, Sherlock, breathe... don’t slip away on me, it’s okay,” he murmured, wishing he could lean down, terrified to move his head at all. “Listen to me. You are right here with me, nothing else matters. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and leaned into John’s touches. He wiggled up again until his head was resting on John’s shoulder gently. “Th-thank you. I’m, I’m okay. Just, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t even realize tears were on his face. He took another deep breath, slowly calming back down. “ I love you, I love you.” 

John brushed his palms along Sherlock’s cheeks, his breath catching as he realized Sherlock was _crying._ He gathered him as close as he could manage and carefully pet his back, bending his knee up as a shock of pain jolted across his head and faded just as fast. He sucked in a breath and let his eyes close, not really aware of it anyhow. 

Mark set the syringe down, impressed with John’s ability to settle Sherlock, ready to dose him as Sherlock bordered panic. He was quiet as he settled back into his chair, sending a message to the head desk that he was turning over his other patients today. These two were not being left unattended. 

Sherlock was still antsy as he took in a shuddering breath and blew it out slowly, “Your head hurts?” He’d seen the flash of pain across John’s features. “They said your eyes are okay. It should come back, your vision I mean.” It finally occurred to him to tell John. He gave a small yawn and tucked in against John more.

John reached up slowly and touched the bandages, wincing. He’d been calling in evac and something had... a horrible pain had cracked across his head and-

“I got shot, then?” He asked gently, his voice wavering, trying to put it together as the pain slowly crept up on him. He was beginning to feel nauseous. 

“Mark? What happened to John, was he shot?” Sherlock’s English was alarmed, heart rate skyrocketing suddenly. He whimpered, clinging to John, grip on his hip tightening. “Oh God, Mark?!” 

John’s eyes flew open as an alarm sounded and Sherlock was shouting something he couldn’t understand, grabbing tight to him. He tried to sit up, losing his grasp of where they were, dragging his hands protectively over Sherlock’s head and shielding him with his body as he tried to get his vision to work, one hand going to his hip for his weapon. What the _fuck_ was happening? 

Mark swore and pushed John back down with a hand splayed across his chest, which only proved to panic John more, making him growl low in warning and shove Mark’s hand away, trying to keep the threat away from Sherlock as his pressure monitors began to sing behind him. 

Mark pressed the call button as he struggled with the men, “Calm the fuck down you idiots!” he shouted, losing his grip for a second before grabbing John by both his shoulders and pressing him hard down into the bed. “Sherlock you have to tell him to stop!” he shouted, watching John’s pressures climb alarmingly. 

Sherlock was tugging at John, “No, no, no, lie down! It’s bad. It's bad! Lie down, please.” He was begging, sharply in Pashto, to John, panic transferring to the effort to get John back down, “Please, love, _please_. Don’t fight. Please don’t fight; you’re hurting yourself.”

He struggled up on his elbow and reached out, tilting John’s face to him and kissed him out of desperation.

John lay there panting, his head about to burst from the inside out, soft lips on his calming him down instantly. He froze and then went lax, hands up at the sides of his head, palms exposed in supplication as his stomach turned and his ears rang. It had just been a defensive reaction to Sherlock’s panic. He couldn’t see... was easily tipped from his reality. It had been a foolish move. 

“I’m sorry,” he panted as his nose began to bleed. 

Mark watched as his pressures began to fall, dragging his lines clear, ensuring nothing was pinched off. He saw the bleed, mouthing at the responding nurse to let neuro know to remotely check John’s monitor feed. 

Sherlock tucked his head against John’s neck, “I’m sorry, you asked if you’d been shot again and I panicked. I don’t know what happened and I- shot, Jesus. I’m sorry.” He took in a breath, English soft, apologetic, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He thinks he’s been shot. What happened to him Mark?”

“He has closed head trauma, Sherlock,” was all Mark offered, not sure if the detective could tolerate hearing ‘torture’ at the moment. “We operated on him yesterday after a bit of an accident, put in a drain to keep the pressure around his brain down.”

Mark grabbed a bit of gauze and held it to John’s nose, ensuring it was just blood there and breathing a touch easier when there was no targeting on the white fabric. “Can you hold this here for a minute, Sherlock?” he asked as he went to wash his hands and slip on gloves. 

John was panting now, little pops of gold in the darkness, a tear sliding down his cheek. “I feel sick,” he whispered, brittle. 

Sherlock gently held the gauze as he listened. “He feels sick...” he warned Mark. “John, it’s okay. We’ve got you. You have closed head trauma. He says they operated to take some pressure off. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I panicked.” His switched fluidly between the languages.

John reached up and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist where he held the gauze to his nose, cracking a bit of a lopsided smile. “What are you doing to me?” he asked of the gauze, unaware he was bleeding, just holding on to Sherlock. “‘s okay, I panicked too. I wouldn’t like to think of you headshot either. You’ve got enough in there without lead,” he joked, blindly reaching for Sherlock’s head, finding it and bumping harder against the side of Sherlock’s skull than he intended, huffing an empty laugh before tugging a curl. He let his hand drop back to the bed before closing his eyes, stomach rolling. 

Mark came back over with his hands gloved, taking the gauze from Sherlock, watching John’s pressure hover at 20. “He can’t be sick right now, keep him calm if you can. I’m going to give you a small dose of your medication, okay Sherlock? Just a little to help your nerves after that.”

Sherlock nodded, “Okay, okay...” He pressed his forehead against John, “Keep talking love, breathe for me? And my head is fine thank you very much. It’s an elegantly organized Palace I’ll have you know.” Oh, there was Sherlock. That clicked, Palace, the memories. He’d go through them later.

He chuckled softly, “Besides, I’m not the one who’s gone round having their skull drilled on for fun. Git...” His words were tempered even further with kisses to John’s jaw. His voice was softer, “Relax love, just relax if you can.”

John held to Sherlock’s wrist, trying to squeeze him tighter and realizing he couldn’t with a frown. “I’ve left sided weakness, do they know?” He began running through his own body, ever the physician, taking stock. He moved his foot, which had been removed from the boot, obviously not remembering being shot. He shouted as he flexed the ankle, gritting his teeth. “God, what the _hell_?” he cried out, his heart racing. 

Mark had just finished pushing Sherlock’s meds when John did whatever he did and his pressure jumped. “Sherlock, I’m going to sedate him if he can’t calm down,” he warned, turning his attention back to John with a frown.

“Hold on John, hold on. Let me ask, calm down and let me ask.” He was trying to soothe John. “Left sided weakness, do you know? He’s asking.” He gently nuzzled John, “Breathe, what else? Let me help. Let me talk to the doctor for you, do you want something for pain, to calm down?” Sherlock was switching rapidly from English to Pashto, wondering if was going to get mental whiplash from it.

He let out a breath as his own hit him, calming the tension in his chest and slowing his words from anxious to calmer, more organized. Mark really had just given him enough to knock the edge off of all the sharpness of the situation.

John arched his back slightly, bending his knee further up as his nerves sang with pain, the slow, creeping onset now in full steam. “M-my leg, Jesus my leg what? Yeah I need, god my head hurts I... Sherlock it...” he was panting, open mouth breathing as he curled his fingers tight in whatever he could reach. 

Mark didn’t need to be told what was happening. John’s blood pressure was rising with his cranial pressures and he’d bloody well _sat up_ earlier, just hours after having his head opened. He drew up the narcotic and had it in the line before Sherlock could speak, pushing it very slowly, worried that John would vomit and push his pressures well over their limits. 

“What’s he saying, Sherlock?”

“Pain, his leg and his head. He trailed off after talking about his head.” Sherlock was worried but not panicking this time around. He watched John, trying to reassure him as he gently rubbed his hip. “John, it’s coming, it’s coming.” John had a hand fisted in Sherlock’s hair and he was somewhat glad for the weakness on that side for now.

“It’s going to be okay, breathe for me.”

John did as instructed, pulling slowly at the air, his fingers relaxing as the medication flowed through his veins. He tried to pull Sherlock down to him as he suddenly felt calm and painless, the shadow of agony a reminder how wonderful everything suddenly was. He cracked a half-smile and whispered in broken, monotone English, “I like this doctor.”

He nuzzled against Sherlock’s hand, completely unaware he’d slipped languages, melting into the bed. “You thought I was a damned ghost, r-member?” he slurred, a sloppy smile on his lips, “down there in the riverbed all,” he waved a hand in the air, able to perfectly recall the scene without his physical vision in the way now, “angry and _tanned_.”

Sherlock’s brain went to work with his palace back online. The scene played back and he hummed softly, “Ghosts, the pair of us...” He pressed against John, “It’s what you said to me. I thought, I thought you were dead. Yeah, but why?” He couldn’t recall. “God, I’m going to have to go through my entire mind palace.” He’d answered in English without thinking, so used to letting John lead with languages now.

He chewed at his lip, "The edge of the Thames, strung out... ghosts, had just come back from uhm, France...” He looked down and raised his shirt suddenly wincing at the ugly scar he’d left on himself, “Oh gods, I did that left handed...”

John drifted as Sherlock babbled nonsensically, languishing in the calm peace of painless nothing his doctor had put him in. His mind handed him imagery, and he just looked at it and moved on, no idea what to do with it aside from shrug and wish he could fix it. He occasionally ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, carefully touching him, glad to have him there. 

He coughed, nothing remarkable, but it jolted a memory for whatever reason and he cracked a wide, devious smile. “Do you know they asked me to _beg on camera_? Ha! Beg. What idiots,” he slurred again, dipping in and out of English. “On camera. They didn’t like me. Mycroft liked me I think. I thought, at least- wait... why?” he was rambling, trying to put one string with another, “Sundays. We drank together when it was cold. He’d show sometimes.” He tilted his head to the side, tugging on Sherlock for no particular reason. “lean on your headstone and ramble on and on... till... till...” he was confusing himself. He took deep breath and tugged petulantly at Sherlock, frowning. 

Sherlock turned that over in his mind, matching it with bits and pieces as his memory retrieved corresponding files. He tilted his head, “Mycroft... idiot.” He growled softly, bristling slightly at the mention of his brother. He leaned into John, “Mine, my John.” he nuzzled, “Rest, just rest. It will come back for both of us.”

He murmured softly, something unintelligible, the lilt of Gaelic twining through the words though. Sherlock pressed kisses against John’s shoulder and let his eyes close. He wasn’t going to sleep until John did though.

Mark took note as John fell off into sleep and the neurologist poked his head in the door. He walked away from the men, leaning on the jamb to talk to him without disturbing them. There was a brief exchange, nothing particularly interesting or unexpected. It was simply too soon to know. 

He shook the man’s hand and walked back to his seat, carefully taking up his place in the recliner, glad the comfortable chair was there at all. He kicked his feet up on the little desk under the monitors and allowed himself to doze while there was calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, a bit to tide you over, hopefully we'll clean it up more later. Sorry about the wait guys.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More healing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, largely unedited, but another chapter. Hopefully will be able to go back through them and shape them up a bit better!

Sherlock drifted in and out, his pulse monitor sometimes chiming softly for just a minute as he dreamed. So much for going through things at his leisure. His brain was righting itself with or without his permission. He watched events he’d already buried in his mind, as everything he’d done was unfolded and put on display, all at once.

He woke in a sickening cold-sweat, panting as his heart raced. His voice was low, strangled, “I became a monster,” he whispered to no one in particular, unaware of anyone else in the foggy waking moment. His focus slid up to the ceiling as he replayed some of the more disturbing events in his mind’s eye.

John had been quietly awake for awhile, feeling Sherlock moving in his arms, not making an effort to wake him though. He would card his fingers through his hair, his own heart dropping as Sherlock’s monitors chirped, calming as they went quiet. 

Sherlock’s words though...he hissed quietly and tightened his arm around Sherlock, catching them, instantly answering back, “No.” His English clear and easy. He could not pull at him as he wanted, but he kept his fingers tight, his jaw twitching. “No.”

Sherlock startled at John’s voice and then curled hard into him, “Safe, you’re safe. That’s what matters.” His voice was tired, rough. He nuzzled John’s shoulder before murmuring, “English... I like it.” 

He sighed and looked around the room in a daze, “London, St. Bart’s, you got your head cracked and I went round the bend...”

John’s hands moved over Sherlock until he felt the thud of his heart, tapping his chest. “I think your heart cracked and your head rebelled, more likely,” he called out, carding his other hand over Sherlock’s forehead, sinking his fingers into his hair. “It’s alright, it’s all still there.”

He was so impossibly tired, but he was there. His English was there. His memory was there. His sight was not, but Mark had assured him in repetitive, hushed whispers that it would be. 

“You are not a monster,” he forced the topic back, his tone unyielding as he could manage it, “A bloody _prat_ , yes. Monster? No.”

Sherlock huffed at John, “Bloody idiot. I am not a prat.” His tone was indignant. He leaned up and kissed his jaw, “Impossible man, my John. Mine.” He took a breath, voice serious again, “I feel like one. I did things no one should... but I did it for love. You, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, all of you were in danger. I wasn’t having that. You’re all mine, _my family_.” Sherlock’s tone turned dangerously cold and dark for a moment. Monitors flickering with the upticks in activity as the accompanying hormones dumped. _“No one threatens my family. Ever.._.”

John sank his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and curled a tight fist, tugging sharply for just a moment to shock him out of where he was going before letting him go. “Stop that. Stop. That road is closed to you right now, stay here with me.” God, he wished he could see, could sit up and manage this idiot properly. 

He gentled his fingers and his arms and wrapped him up carefully, “Come here,” he whispered, slipping his arms around him as he pulled Sherlock’s head to his chest and trailed his fingers soft down his back, trying to call up the gentle things. “Listen to me here, okay, hush and count,” it was instinctive, directing the musician to pace the rhythm of his heart, carding his fingers through his hair. 

Sherlock melted almost immediately at the tug to his hair, everything dissipating as he listened to John. He curled against John, listening to his chest, eyes drifting closed, his lips working over the count. He wrapped his arm around John’s midsection gently as he pushed one of John’s hands back to his hair and snuggled in further.

“Mine, yours...” It was the simplest way he could possibly describe their relationship, but it was true, they belonged to one another.

Suddenly Sherlock came back to himself and huffed, “Git, thought you were meant to be straight.”

John huffed a laugh, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as silently requested. “That makes the pair of us,” he whispered back, his voice raw and the effort of keeping to English shockingly difficult. 

He knew Mark was still there, but he didn’t care. Mark had walked him through what he knew, and John very clearly remembered his escape attempts. Hell, he could still feel the blood crusted along the creases of his face, could smell it on his hands. If only he’d been so resourceful in the caves. 

“Are you back with me, Sherlock?” he whispered, tugging gently at his hair.

Sherlock gave a sigh of contentment, “Mhm, m’here.” His voice was lazy, warm again. John’s heartbeat soothed him. He opened his eyes and they fell on Mark after a moment. He hmph’d softly and closed them again, having honestly forgotten the man was there. He smiled though, not actually put out by it. Just caught off guard for a moment.

“What is it, my love?”

John shook his head and hissed, having forgotten himself for a moment. “Just...” he trailed off and then picked back up in Pashto, “I’m sorry, English is exhausting. I just wanted to see if you were back.”

He took a slow, deep breath and adjusted his bad leg, accidently flexing his fingers in Sherlock’s hair for a moment before relaxing his hand and smoothing it over Sherlock’s scalp in silent apology. He lay still, feeling the warmth of Sherlock’s body bleeding into his own, shivering with it, sighing slightly. 

Mark turned his chair a bit, keeping his eyes off the men, giving them the privacy they could afford. 

Sherlock, “It’s okay love, at least you’re understanding it now. That’s a good sign.” He switched back with him, smiling. “I love you, so much. This has- gods, did you think? I didn’t. I knew you’d stay, you’d go adventuring with me. Mmm, but this.” Sherlock was back in the land of warm fuzzies as far as his feelings went. He nuzzled against John and hummed lightly.

“We need to heal our brains. I want to go home with you.”

John held quiet, glad to hear the peace in Sherlock’s voice, calmly petting his hair and holding him close. His own mind was not so serene, but he’d no intention of tipping Sherlock out of the warm solace he’d found. 

Mark looked up as the monitors blipped, eyes darting between the two, brow knitting at the unexpected rise in one or the other’s vitals. He looked to the side, watching the calm pair for a moment before going to his feet, leaning closer to the screens. It was John’s heart rate, jumping out of rhythm before sliding back into normalcy, over and over. He looked down at them, just observing for a while, keeping quiet as he muted the screen. 

Sherlock murmured softly, “Don’t scare me like this anymore. I won’t scare you anymore. Okay?” He was rubbing his eyes sleepily. “All I’ve done is sleep. I’d like to stay awake.”

He moved a bit and settled in so he was tucked against John’s side. “You okay?” It was a sleepy question. John was quiet so he was worried, just a response to everything that had been going on.

“I’m okay,” he breathed, flexing his arm at Sherlock’s back, trying to focus his racing thoughts on the sound of Sherlock’s breathing. He was processing,but it was a lot to take in. Sherlock was going to be _furious_ when he learned about the night last, and John was struggling to come up with ways to keep that information from him. 

Futile, but a desperate ploy at denying reality. He chewed the inside of his lips, finding them willing to bleed easy, already worn down raw from days and days of fear and confusion. 

Mark was still close, eyes narrowed and locked to John’s feed, watching John’s heart doing things John himself was unaware of. His eyes cut down to the man himself from time to time, puzzled, wondering if the lead was shorting on him. 

Sherlock nuzzled closer to John, “ ‘kay. Promise?” He traced circles on John’s hip again, defaulting to it among everything else. Just wanting to feel this. Right here, right now, despite all the bullshit, was wonderful. He hadn’t lost John, John hadn’t lost him and they were together. That was what was important.

“Greg, Molly, they were here... Are they coming back?” 

Mark took this one. “Greg’s gone home for a proper rest. Molly is finishing her shift, I believe, I expect she’ll pop in and make sure I’ve not misplaced either of you before she joins him,” he said warmly. 

“Sherlock, think you can eat?” He asked, frowning as John’s heart jumped again. He wanted to get Sherlock away from the man without alerting him to his slow growing concern. “It’s getting late in the day and you’ve already skipped a meal.” If John understood, he may bully the man into it, anyhow. 

Sherlock grumped about it, a whine creeping into his voice, “I don’t... I’m not hungry.” That was a lie, he found he was starving. His hand tightened on John’s hip slightly. If they could get him back into his bed he’d probably be just fine talking to John from there for the most part, at least for a while.

He buried his face down against John’s side and didn’t move. Shoving the blanket up half over his head.

John opened his eyes, a flash of irritation as he remembered that was useless, and shoved at Sherlock. “You want to take me home, you have to eat. Get some food, git.” He said with fondness lacing his tones. He felt sluggish and heavy, his arteries throbbing along his left side, making him feel sick as they pulsed. He was banking on Mark catching this, not at all wanting Sherlock to know he wasn’t feeling well. 

He pushed him again. “Go on, don’t make me argue with you, ‘m tired.”

Sherlock leaned up and kissed John’s jaw gently, “Alright. Okay, you win.” Sherlock looked up at Mark, “You two are ganging up on me. I’ll eat... Need help up though.” His stomach growled as he felt Mark drop the rail behind him, and he carefully sat up on the side of the bed before standing slowly. He let Mark help him back over to his own bed, monitor and IV lines carefully straightened. 

He sat crosslegged on the bed and hummed to himself.

John was quietly panting by the time Sherlock was back in his bed. Mark pressed the call button and asked the nurse to bring Sherlock something from the deli downstairs, not hospital food, thank you, before handing the man his violin as a distraction. “Play us something, will you?”

He turned back to John then, casually arranging his blankets and leads, pressing his fingers to the pulses starting at his wrist and working his way up to his neck as he went, being as casual as possible. John was sweating, doing his best to keep his discomfort a secret, forcing his fingers to remain relaxed. 

Sherlock took it up and tucked it against himself, he started playing, a soft, gentle melody that often pleased John. He closed his eyes and let the music transport him to happy days at 221B Baker Street. He swayed on the bed as he worked through the music, happy to play for them.

John held on to the sound of Sherlock playing, breathing as slowly as he was able. Mark squeezed his shoulder and looked up as the nurse carried in a bag of food in and he pointed to Sherlock with a smile and a thank you. He dropped his stethoscope out of his pocket and tucked it in his ears, listening to John’s chest for a moment, trying to be as quick as possible. He pressed it to John’s arm last, pressing down on the artery before dropping the scope over his neck. 

He looked back up at the monitor and caught the nurse by her arm gently, pulling her in close, whispering something to her ear before letting her go with a nod. 

“How’s your food, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up surprised and looked at the food. “Oh, sorry.” He put the violin aside and dug into the bag. He took out a sandwich and then pulled out the pasta salad. He hummed softly to himself as he took a bite and nodded his approval at the sandwich. 

He held it up to John, “Eating, as requested.” John looked odd. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Pain probably. He flicked his eyes to Mark, somewhat nervous. He kept quiet for the moment. His heart rate ticked up, but nothing alarming. He continued eating his sandwich as he watched them, a smile on his face. The smile wasn’t real, but only John would be able to see that. He doubted John was with it enough to tell. The sheen on his forehead, the way he held himself, trying to appear relaxed.

Sherlock just ate, observing carefully.

John focused inward for a while, trying to decide what exactly the hell was going on. His chest felt tighter by the minute and the pulsing had spread from the left side to the right, his entire body thrumming as though he’d just run for his life. He desperately wished for the mask, but he wasn’t about to tip Sherlock off like that. Mark wasn’t thumping on his chest, so there was that. He wished bitterly for his sight. The dark made him feel alone. 

Mark tapped his finger to his lip, watching John carefully. This was new. He debated how to go about addressing his current condition, looking over casually to Sherlock, giving him a smile for eating before pulling his attention back to John. He cleared his throat after a moment. 

“John, can you understand what I’m saying to you?”

John’s brows knit as Mark addressed him in English, catching the words and working hard to pair them with meaning. His fingers curled into the bedding slowly. “Y-yeah,” he returned in rasping English, wishing to hell Sherlock was sitting with him again, feeling lost, his reality splintering away. 

“I need you to calm down, John, take a slow breath for me,” Mark instructed calmly, pointedly looking at Sherlock to keep him where he was. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his voice calm, “You two are hiding something from me. John, you are the world’s _worst_ liar except when it comes to feigning sleep. Mark, apparently you aren’t far behind him. Honestly, Mark I can forgive for doubting me, but you John.” He tsked, “Having said that, is there anything I can do other than shut up?” He finished the last bit of his sandwich as he watched them.

Mark was experimenting on John, and not at all keen to tell that to Sherlock yet. He shook his head and touched his finger to his lips. 

“John. Calm down.”

John had directed his attention back at Sherlock, reminded by his voice that he was there, at the very least, one hand tearing off the blankets to curl over his chest. He all but snarled at Mark, irritated with the way he was being addressed, as though he were behaving as some silly child. He pulled in as deep a breath as he was able, wanting to tell him off and failing to gather enough air into his lungs. His monitor blipped as it tripped past the preset again. 

Mark moved forward and killed it, stepping back to the foot of John’s bed again, watching him very closely. “John. Settle down.”

Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed at Mark. He sat quietly though, arms folding back across his chest. His eyes flicked to the monitors and down to John. He was getting twitchy not being able to go to John’s side and soothe him. He ground his teeth slightly as he was stuck, watching.

\---

Molly was stopped in the hallway and told by the nurse to be silent when she went in. Molly came in quietly and read Sherlock like an open book. He was agitated, exhausted, and soaking in worried confusion. Silently she crossed the room, to quietly sit on the edge of the bed, lacing her fingers with Sherlock’s. She winced when he clamped down, his disquiet clear in the force of his grip.

John was seething at this point, having caught Mark’s game, betrayal dripping into his chest as the dynamic shifted from the pair of them protecting Sherlock from whatever was going wrong with John’s heart, to John being the perceived lunatic psych patient the room was observing quietly. 

He managed to slowly prop himself up on an elbow, wanting nothing more than to properly sit up. He blinked rapidly, growling low in his chest at his lack of vision, his heart racing and his breathing too swift and shallow. “Th-think this is f-fucking _amusing_?” he hissed, his voice cracking as his knuckles blanched, shoulders shaking. 

Mark said nothing, holding out a hand towards Sherlock, watching John carefully. 

Molly was already on the move. She suddenly planted herself in Sherlock’s lap and looked at him, daring him to throw her out. He narrowed his eyes and then just wrapped up around her and rested his head on her shoulder. She could feel him shaking.

She gently stroked his hands as they watched. She had no idea what Mark was doing. Her eyes watched John’s monitors for a moment before her face looked back to John himself. Sherlock’s grip was getting painful again as he fought to stay in control and not leap across the room to throttle Mark over this

Mark took a step forward, speaking once more. “Come on, John,” he said calmly, not gentle or caring though, just business. 

John drew in a rattling breath, sure he was dying, a tear sliding down his face as he made a small, furious sound. He turned his face towards the origin of Mark’s voice and let go of his own chest, taking a few slow, deep breaths before thrusting his finger in the direction he hoped Mark was standing. 

“Wh-when I c-can stand I’m k-killing you,” he hissed before dropping back down on the bed with a sound of pain, pulling in deep lungfuls of air, tears tracking down his face as his heart rhythm steadied out, the rate too fast, but steady once again. Mark put up his hands and stepped back, openly pleased, motioning for Sherlock to go to him if he wanted. 

He nearly praised John, but thought better of it just then as he went to draw up a small dose of sedative for him. 

Sherlock still had no clue what was going on but Molly was already helping him out of the bed and back to John’s. She dropped the rail on John’s bed and held Sherlock’s lines up. Sherlock was speaking soothingly to John, Pashto, “English still bothering you?” He touched John’s arm gently as he started climbing into bed and stretched out beside him.

John cracked, his chest shaking with quiet sobs as he pressed his face to Sherlock, curling his arms around him, bending his knee into the air, shifting to the side despite the way it made his head ache. His breathing hitched and he just shut down to everything outside of Sherlock, burrowing desperately to him, exhausted and wrung out. 

Sherlock held him close. He was pressing kisses to the top of John’s head. “I’ve got you.” He pressed close, facing John. He was whispering softly to him.

“This will help, John,” Mark said quietly, slipping the sedative into one of John’s lines and pushing it slowly. 

John, for whatever reason, took that to mean something entirely different. He tensed, his heart skipping as he bit out a clipped, “Please, no,” in Pashto, twisting away from Sherlock to blindly reach out to Mark, “Sherlock help me,” he stammered, confused even as he felt the chemical thread into his veins. He moaned with the fear of it, pressing his hands to his face, his chest stuttering as he tried to breathe through it. 

Sherlock spoke softly, “Love, it’s okay, it’s okay. It’s just to help your nerves...” Sherlock shot a glare up at Mark, “He was saying no, it scared him and now I think he’s confused. I don’t know.” He nuzzled John softly, “I’m right here, I’m with you. I have you and you’re safe.”

Sherlock was agitated and his monitor was beginning to show it. He was concerned for John,no clue what was going on.

Mark held up a finger, watching John, eyes flicking between the panicked man and the clock. “John? Come back to us, okay? Right here, John, you’re okay,” Mark called out, waiting. 

John had dropped a single hand from his face to Sherlock’s shirt, holding tight, leaning into him. It took less than three minutes for him to unwind, his heart slowing, his breathing leveling down. He swallowed and cleared his throat, color touching his cheeks as he kept his grip on Sherlock but addressed Mark in English. “Drug reaction?”

Mark hummed his agreement and picked up John’s chart, “Think so John, yeah. Mild, but lets see if we can keep that from happening again.”

John tucked his face against Sherlock. “I’m sorry, I was- that was...” still easier in Pashto, defaulting back to it with Sherlock, pressing as close as he could manage. 

Sherlock was looking from John to Mark and back again even as he held on to John. He answered softly, heart rate still elevated as he tried to calm back down and rein back in the fear and anger, “It’s okay, John. I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head tenderly.

Mark settled down with John’s chart, trying to decide what the hell set him off like that out of the myriad of medications he was on post-surgical. He flicked his eyes up at Sherlock’s monitors. “Sherlock, you alright over there?” he asked casually, looking over to Molly, hoping she wasn’t about to throttle him. 

John was catching his breath, his chest still very tight. “Mark can- what can- it still hurts,” he breathed into Sherlock’s neck, working hard to make his words English, wanting to comfort Sherlock, hating how hard Sherlock’s heart was racing. 

“I’m fine...” English, clipped, irritated with the entire situation. He slowly and gently rubbed John’s back, “I’ve got you.” He defaulted to Pashto for John right now, just snuggling close.

Molly was looking at them all, having taken over Sherlock’s perch in his bed. “Sherlock...” it was a warning: _Don’t Lie_. He ground his teeth and snapped, “No, I’m not okay, that frightened me and I still want to punch you over it.” His admission only made him more angry with Mark. 

Mark pushed aside the chart and got to his feet, going to scrub his hands before drawing up Sherlock’s dose. He did not have to get overly close to the man, unwilling to tempt fate, dropping the needle into a higher port up the line. He dropped the needle in the sharps box before going to the wall and grabbing the O2 mask and handing it to Sherlock for John, banking on his restraint in exchange for helping John. 

“John if I could give you something to counter this I wouldn’t have put you through any of that. I don’t know what it is yet, and if I hit you with Narcan or diphenhydramine I am going to drop you out of _all_ your meds, and I don’t want you hanging with no pain medication on board. Let me look it over. You pissed yourself off enough to shock your rhythm steady, the pressure at your chest is harmless, just uncomfortable. I’m working on it, I promise.”

Sherlock gently took the mask, but shot Mark a glare as he did. He murmured softly to John that he had oxygen for him. He held the mask to John’s face and cuddled close again. He looked at Mark, ire fading as the drug started hitting. He cursed at him softly in Gaelic.

Molly shushed Sherlock, “That wasn’t nice.” She only knew a handful of Gaelic... all curses, thanks to Sherlock.

“He doesn’t have to be nice. I’d prefer he not swing at me until he’s a little more healthy, though,” Mark replied easily, giving him space as he went back to John’s chart. 

John was pulling greedy at the air, whimpering slightly with each exhalation. It hurt, and he still had a steady sense of unease, the clashing medication whispering lies to him in the darkness. He was miserable as he clung to Sherlock, hating how angry the man was as it rippled off him in waves. He held his tongue, knowing he was the source, forcing one hand to uncurl from the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt to thread gently through his hair. 

Sherlock was rapidly cooling down thanks to the medication and when John’s hand hit his hair he melted against him with a soft sigh. His eyes closed as he just enjoyed the touch. His voice was soft, “I’m sorry if I’ve stressed you out, John. I’m trying, I promise I am, I just get so scared something’s going to happen to you and I... my world tilts off its axis.” He was staring down.

“‘S okay,” John breathed, trying to force his English to keep Sherlock at ease, petting him as best he could manage, wishing he could see his face. “I love you ‘s okay,” god his chest hurt. 

Mark shook his head, “Molly can you keep an eye, I’m going to get a consult, there are just too many possibilities here,” he said with his nose in the chart, getting to his feet. 

“I’ve got them, shoo.” She smiled brightly at him and shot a look at Sherlock’s back. “Now I’m in charge, Sherlock, you’re in trouble.”

Sherlock actually chuckled at that. He looked to John and leaned in, kissing him softly. “I love you, so very much.”

John was really trying to keep up with Sherlock, shaking his head slightly, hating how much bulk was bound around it. “N-Never would have thought you’d be… so b-bloody sentimental,” he quipped, pressing closer, greedy at the mask, unable to catch his breath. He was still breathing through his mouth, slotting a leg through Sherlock’s, gasping a bit on every inhalation. His vitals were steady through, it was mostly in his head, a wrapped sense of _not okay._

“Molly I’m- so sorry about what I did… Greg, I-” he shook his head again and went quiet, memories shredding through his mind. 

Molly arched a brow, “None of that. Apology accepted if you need me to. But, John, that wasn’t you. You had serious issues going on. No one blames you, especially Greg. He’s just glad you’re okay...” Hell, she was glad John was speaking to her without yelling at her over the whole Fall incident.

Sherlock smiled to John, “Just slow down, love. Yes, when it comes to you, I’m actually sentimental. Do shut up about it and tell me you love me again.”

John tugged at Sherlock, hating the way he was feeling, trying to listen to them. “M-I love you,” he whispered, his back tense, easing closer, wishing now that he could have more of something, _anything_ to make him feel better. 

He whimpered again, tears at his unseeing eyes, sniffling behind the mask. “I feel like hell,” he murmured. 

Sherlock pulled away the mask for just a moment, kissing John tenderly. He touched his cheek gently before leaning back so John could have the mask back, “I’m sorry my love. I’m so, so sorry.”

Mark came back in soon after, finding Sherlock calmer and John stable but clearly uncomfortable. He had a syringe in hand. “John, I think we’ve figured it out. This is going to put you under a while, okay?”

He went over and fed it into the line, eyes locked to John’s monitors, a nurse and the neurologist lingering at the door just in case. Mark was counting under his breath, reaching out to the side and tucking his fingers to John’s neck even as he watched the monitor. “Deep, slow breaths for me, John, may feel a little hot, you’re okay.”

John reached up, putting a hand across Sherlock’s face, touching the pad of his thumb to Sherlock’s lips. “Love you,” he murmured, lingering a half minute longer before his arm went lax and he dropped off into sleep. 

Sherlock really had no idea why he started crying, just tucked his head against John’s and held onto him, chest heaving slightly as he quietly sobbed. Molly slipped off the bed and came and rubbed his shoulder. She shrugged lightly at Mark. He wasn’t hysterical, merely crying.

Mark only made a few assurances before he left Sherlock to his emotional release. “It’s not a setback of any sort, just a chemical reaction. He’s okay. There was nothing wrong with him, he wasn’t in any severe danger. He’ll wake up and I expect all his progress will be in place.” 

With that, he nodded to the support staff and then to Molly, leaving the pair in peace for a little while. Mark moving across the hall to his makeshift room. 

Sherlock just snuggled John, Molly patting him until he quit crying. Once he started drifting off, Molly texted Greg.

Staying for a while. Sherlock’s bunking with John, going to nap a while in Sherlock’s bed I think. Stay home, rest. I’ll be in later. I love you. - Molls

She leaned down and kissed each of their foreheads before smiling to the nurse. Thank gods she knew her, a bit anyhow. Molly hopped back up in the bed and snuggled down in it. She was almost instantly asleep, one ear tuned for anything Sherlock related.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with us. We cannot thank you enough!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the long hiatus. Have a big chapter. Warning for some smut.

The trouble with blindness, for John anyhow, was the shift from dreaming to waking. He felt the man beside him, hours and hours after he’d fallen asleep last, felt the way he was wrapped around John, nearly desperate in his hold. He swept his hand over the thin back as his hearing perked up. Why couldn’t he see?

“Peters?” Hushed english, a gentle shake, “Peters wake up,” urgent now as he dragged his fingers around the front of Sherlock’s face, stopping under his nose to ensure the man was still breathing. “Come on Peters, tell me you’re still with me.”

He shook him again, trying to sit up and yelping, quickly silencing himself and easing back down, breathing too fast. He tugged once more at Sherlock’s shoulder, gentle but insistent. “Come on Peters don’t do this.”

Molly stirred at the yelp and rolled over to watch. She listened to John but didn’t intervene yet. Neither of the men were in distress. This could be something Sherlock had to learn to deal with as the two of them healed anyhow.

Sherlock huffed and batted finally at John’s hands. “Enough, enough I’m awake. Does Lestrade have a case for us?” He was still mostly asleep, but he knew John’s voice, his touch. He muttered, “It’s too early, tell him to piss off and come back to sleep.” His hand closed around John’s hip again and squeezed. “Mine.” he huffed out as he sank back down a bit.

John went very still at that. _Oh. Right._ He relaxed back down, smoothing fingers over Sherlock’s hair as he blinked, reminding himself he couldn’t see, reminding himself he didn’t have Peters anymore and that he was in London, at Barts, with a brain injury. 

Something about that made him very, very sad. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, willing himself back to sleep that refused him. Instead he took to tracing slow lines along Sherlock’s back, just waiting for...something. 

Sherlock was distracted from sleep by John’s hands and finally opened his eyes all the way, sleepily taking in John’s features. He’d give anything to be home, waking up like this with everything fixed. He swallowed hard and blinked back tears at that. His voice was quiet, “Molly, get me a cloth, some soap, and a basin of warm water please.” He didn’t even know if she was awake, didn’t care. She’d wake up, she always woke up. He’d spent a couple of weeks holed up in her flat after The Fall, before he’d had all the arrangements made. Jim had forced his timeline forward.

Molly slid out of the bed and did as Sherlock asked as Sherlock touched John’s face. “Going to wash your face, love. Okay?” His fingers glided across John’s face, stroking gently, “You’re scruffy, want me to shave you?” The question made Sherlock’s chest tighten suddenly. It had come so easily. All of this: sentiment, the want to help John, to make him happy, to care for him. He was glad John couldn’t see him at the moment. He must have looked terrified and angry all at the same time.

John’s brow knit and he set his jaw for a moment, about to tell Sherlock to piss off, thanks, before thinking better of it. He reached up carefully and touched his own jaw, feeling the stubble there, fanning his hand out along the bone, the dip in his chin. He sighed and bit his lip. “Yeah...please,” he whispered, swallowing hard against the press of tears, humiliated with his own current helplessness. He bitterly wished he could just go back to sleep. 

Sherlock watched the expressions on John’s face and bit his lip. He steadied his breathing before he spoke, “I love you.” Sherlock sat up carefully on the edge of the bed as Molly dropped the rail. She’d dragged the rolling table over for him and he gently touched John’s shoulder. “Going to wash your face now.”

Sherlock took his time, carefully washing John’s face. He cleaned the dried, flaking blood from everywhere, humming as he did, trying to soothe John. He finished and brushed a finger along his jaw. Molly got him fresh water and his shave kit from his bag. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock reached into the kit and drew out the supplies, laying them on the rolling table before looking back over at John, “Alright, you ready?” John had tensed so much at this earlier that Sherlock felt the need to give him a way out. “You can stay scruffy if you’d rather. I don’t mind... you just.” He bit off the words, flustered. He was trying to help, not hurt John.

John was already feeling worlds better with his face free of the cracking blood, forgetting how stiff he was each time he made an expression. He took a slow breath and turned his eyes towards Sherlock’s voice. “Yeah, please,” he said again, less upset now that he was reminded how much better he felt. 

Mark had floated back in, lingering at the door with his arms casually crossed, staying long enough to eyeball the monitors before raising a brow at Molly to ensure all was alright. 

Molly just rolled her eyes as if to say it was the two of them and all was as well as could be. Sherlock didn’t even know Mark was there, so fixated on John for the moment.

Sherlock dampened John’s face again and spread shaving cream across John’s face. He pulled out the razor and admired it for a moment. Mycroft was a prat but he’d got Sherlock’s favorite brand of, admittedly expensive, razor. He was careful, moving slowly. He knew from experience careful was key with them. They were sharp. 

Sherlock was thorough, if a bit slow, but finally John was clean shaven again and Sherlock washed his face once more, “Hm, well, I’m slow, but you’re no longer scruffy.” There was the barest hint of pride in Sherlock’s voice. He hadn’t cut John and he’d done something that had obviously made John feel better.

John slid a palm over his face, humming to himself. “Thanks, Sherlock,” he said gently, taking a deep breath and honestly feeling better despite himself. He pressed his palms down to the mattress and carefully shifted to sit up, a bit sick at the way his head swam, feeling tethers dragging along with him at his back. He gripped the side rail and leaned overly-forward, breathing slowly, beyond ready to be done with all of this. 

“Am I allowed to eat? Fuck, I’m hungry.”

Sherlock blinked and then laughed with relief. “I have no idea but I will find out.” He looked up to Molly and she smiled, “Let me go ask Mark, he’s just peeked in on you both.” She slid out the door and went to find him.

Sherlock moved and pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. “How are you feeling sitting up?” His hand found John’s and twined their fingers together.

“Anything is better than flat on my back,” John answered swiftly, leaning into Sherlock’s touch, gladly holding Sherlock’s hand as his own stomach growled at him. “Head feels...wrong, but it’s not as bad as it could be. English isn’t so hard today. I’m irritable as hell.”

He grumbled and leaned his shoulder against Sherlock’s arm, bored and tired and off, but more okay than he’d been in days. 

Sherlock chuckled softly. “Here, I’ve got an idea.” He gently sat John back up and took his hand away, “Just sit, hold on.” He tilted the head of the bed up slowly and then carefully helped shift John to the middle of it. He crawled in behind John and rested back against the mattress before gently tugging John back against his chest, the lines fed carefully over his shoulder.

“How’s that, my grumpy doctor?” He nuzzled the side of John’s neck before resting his chin on his shoulder. Fingers splayed gently against John’s stomach, rubbing lazy circles there.

John hummed and gladly sank back against Sherlock, threading his fingers over the backs of Sherlock’s knuckles at his belly, closing his eyes and shifting comfortably against the man. “So much better,” he replied truthfully. 

He was quiet for a while, comfortable and and calm in this new position, feeling closer to Sherlock now than any other time, their position letting him relax his weight back without overly burdening Sherlock. 

“How the hell do you manage to make Pashto sound like a bloody romance language?” he asked after a while, a small uptick to his lips. 

Sherlock chuckled as he bent his head back to John’s ear, Pashto soft, “Because I’m speaking it to _you_.” Sherlock knew what he meant, of course, but he couldn’t help it. He nuzzled John’s neck again and placed a few kisses along it.

He leaned down and bit gently where John’s shoulder met his neck and then brushed a kiss to the bitten flesh. “Because I love languages and I love you and want to please you.” The admission was soft, still Pashto. Sherlock’s face against John’s neck, the blush in his cheeks evident from the heat John would be able to feel.

John smirked, shivering slightly at the resonating sound of Sherlock’s small chuckle and the words that slipped over his lips. “You’re sin, you know that,” he rejoined, Pashto, tipping his head slightly to offer Sherlock his neck, irritation giving way to _impatience_ as he resisted the urge to damn his body, rip out his lines and fucking take them home already. 

He brought his hand up, sliding it along Sherlock’s heated cheek, sinking it into his hair. “I love you too, god help me. I love you too.”

It was like this that Mark returned, food in hand. He’d a bag of food for Sherlock and a bowl of broth for John. He swept his eyes over the pair and then cleared his throat. “Uh, morning gentlemen,” he said warmly, setting the food down on the tray. “Sherlock, I’ve got a decent breakfast for you. John, I hear you feel like eating, that’s great! I’m going to irritate you with this broth first, but you really don’t want to test your stomach too hard right now, okay? Try the broth and then we will move up.”

Sherlock was both grateful and seriously irritated at the interruption. He’d been right in the middle of just fucking melting against John when Mark showed up. He really, really, did not want to move right now. He grumbled slightly and then sighed. “Breakfast then. Right.” He slowly slid from behind John, raising the bed a bit more so John could rest back against it like he had been against Sherlock. He took his bag and climbed into his bed. 

After a few moments he finally said, “Thank you.” He was still flustered. He wondered, momentarily, if _this_ is what he’d missed by not sneaking around as a teenager. He pseudo ignored Mark as he tucked into his breakfast.

John hadn’t realized this meant Sherlock would be leaving, but, of course that’s what it meant. He sat there, tucked into his new position, picking at his fingers, irritation flared back up hard as his pride cringed. He could hear Mark at his side, the clink of a spoon resting on a plate beside the bowl, could hear Sherlock rattling his bag and tucking into his food. 

Mark rolled the little tray over to John, he could feel the shift in air over his hands. “Just there in front of you, John,” he heard Mark tell him, anger rising color to his cheeks and the back of his neck. His jaw worked as he picked up a hand and set it on the tray, fingers moving slowly as he sought out the edge. 

He managed to curl his fingers around the spoon before he realized he’d need his other hand to seek out the rim of the bowl, visualizing what he must look like in his minds eye and loathing it entirely. Mark made the mistake of offering help just then, “John, here, I can-”

John went still and turned his face to the man’s voice, his jaw locked tight, breathing too fast, hand shaking with the force of his grip on the spoon. “You can bloody piss off, thanks.”

Sherlock had stopped mid chew when Mark started to offer help. Molly was wandering back in as everything went south. Her eyes were wide as she was already bolting across the room past Mark towards Sherlock. “No, no, no!” Sherlock was trying to climb off the bed to get at Mark. 

John’s voice had set Sherlock, who was already on edge, right the hell off. Molly threw her small frame against him. “You sit _down._ Now.” Sherlock gripped her shoulders, intending to set her aside when she purposefully yelped at him like he’d hurt her. He froze and looked down at her.

“Sit down Sherlock. I mean it. I don’t know what the hell is going on in here but you two need to calm down.” She called softly over her shoulder, tone changing for John, “John... alright?”

Sherlock finally sat down on the edge of the bed and Molly shook her head. “Back, all the way in. Right now.” He set his jaw as though he were going to refuse and she glared. “ _Now._ ” He looked taken aback at her glare and settled himself back in bed. She snapped the rail up and pointed at him. “ _Stay._ ”

She took a breath and turned back to the room, observing. “Okay... now, you lot have got to stop this. Someone want to tell me, _calmly_ mind you, what happened?”

Mark’s eyebrows had vanished into his hairline. He put his hands up slowly and backed away from John. “Er, right then. I’m going to just leave this to you. If you need a _doctor_ , feel free to page me.” He turned and left calmly, despite his irritation. 

John was working on molding the spoon to the shape of his fingers, his jaw twitching, nerves beyond irritated. Sherlock’s reaction had startled him and Molly’s yelp of pain had reminded him how incredibly useless he was, sitting there, hardly able to manage soup with a spoon. 

“I- temper got the best of me,” he bit out, furious and ashamed, looking straight ahead, realizing with a jolt that he was _again_ bordering tears. He cleared his throat and ruthlessly shook himself away from them, “wasn’t...Mark was trying to help. Lost my temper.”

Sherlock picked at the covers in front of him, “Might’ve lost my temper when John got upset.” He looked, not quite ashamed of himself, but something akin to it. “How badly did I hurt you?” he suddenly blurted out as he looked up at Molly. She smirked, “Didn’t. You’re predictable when it comes to the few of us you care about.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed before he looked almost proud for a moment, “Smart girl...” She shrugged and turned back to John, “Now, you. If this keeps up, you’re absolutely going to have to learn your way around a plate, bowl, and utensils. Given that it’s your first bit of food in a while though and I’m assuming.” She paused leaning over to peer in the bowl. “Yep, broth. Why don’t I go get a coffee cup with a lid and you can try that way this time. Bit easier, no help required and you two can _both_ apologize. Honestly... I’ll be right back.”

She huffed back out of the room, in search of Mark and the coffee cup. She stopped and ducked her head back in. “Sit... _behave_.” She disappeared again.

Sherlock cleared his throat after a long moment of silence. “Bit of a pair of prats... weren’t we?” He sounded a little off, like a surly teenager called to heel by his mother.

John uncurled his stiff fingers from the spoon, rubbing the pad of his thumb into the bevel instead of simply setting it down as his jaw worked. “I can’t see. I sometimes can’t speak or understand my own damn language. I can’t walk. Sometimes I can’t remember where I am, or who my closest people are, or what fucking country I’m in. I’ve had my face shaved for me. My clothes changed for me. And now I’ve got to be _fucking spoon fed._ ”

He was being absurd, he knew, but _damn it_ if he couldn’t help it. He was _angry._

“Alright,” Sherlock drawled, “You’ve got reasons to be angry. I’m just a prat.” Sherlock puffed out a breath in annoyance at the situation. “We’re both on edge and I apologize if anything I’ve done has upset you. I cannot stand seeing you upset, or angry or sad... Well, it’s painful and I don’t exactly like it, nor is caring something I’m used to.” He took in a deep breath voicing everything. “I love you, so much, this is...this is entirely new and frightening and all I want to do is take you home and just. I just want you better, me better and us continuing our lives at Baker Street.”

Sherlock’s voice was cracking by the time he was finished talking. He was trying to handle this to the best of his ability. Unfortunately his best wasn’t that great in the grand scheme of things.

John let the spoon go and covered his face, breathing slowly, taking a minute to make every effort to school his anger. His frustration was hurting Sherlock, who was making a damn good effort at helping John. He had to stop. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. This isn’t...I’m not....not upset with you. It’s not you I-” he bit off, still hiding his face, still hungry, feeling smaller than he had in years and years. 

“I should not have snapped at Mark, he was trying to help. Everyone just wants to help and I- god none of you should be helping me. I cannot _stand this._ ”

Molly had paused outside the door a hand on Mark’s arm, stilling him as they listened to the two men.

Sherlock was up and over the rail with only a small amount of fumbling. Ha! He thought in Molly’s direction. He sat on the side of John’s bed. “No, no. I’m not... It isn’t you John. I’m just. I am not used to this and I constantly feel like I am failing you as a, I don’t know is _boyfriend_ ” he said the word with obvious disdain, “even an appropriate term? Regardless, I feel like I’m failing the man I love. I didn’t protect you. I spent a year and a half letting you think I was _dead_ for your protection and it still wasn’t enough.”

He leaned bodily into John. Shoulder touching shoulder. “You mean more to me than anything. My violin, my life... The Work. Everything, anything, all of it.”

Molly was wiping at her face and biting her lip as she listened to Sherlock. She looked up at Mark and smiled, her voice was quiet. “Now that is the Sherlock Holmes _I_ know.”

John did not move away from him, but the words grated nonetheless. “Stop it with that, would you? Stop. Do you have any idea how that feels? To be told you’ve been _protecting me_ all this time? I’m...I’ve made my _entire adult life_ about being a _protector_ and you’ve forced me into _protectee_ status without consent, without choice, without... I had no one here to look after. I had...I met you, and I fell for you. I killed for you, and protected you, and then I failed you, and then I _left_ instead of eating a round, because I figured I owed you at least that much. You did _not_ fail me, Sherlock.” 

His jaw clenched and he bit off the rest of what he’d nearly allowed to tumble from his already loose lips. “There isn’t-” he cleared his throat, voice gentle and much calmer now, hardly above a whisper, “there isn’t anyone else I’d want here right now. Just you. No one else. I can’t imagine...when I woke up the first time and it was Mycroft, all I could think of is how much I’d wished it was _you_.”

Sherlock was reeling. He finally leaned a little more and rested his head against John’s very gently, “I’m sorry. I love you.” He was quiet after that. Just resting against John.

Molly chewed on her lip, entirely unsure as to whether to go in or not.  
John held still for a moment before gently snaking an arm around Sherlock’s back, pulling him in close. He sighed and then whispered, “I promise I’m going to stop being so angry. I’m… you don’t… I’ve plenty to be sorry for as well. I-”

He went silent, just chewing at his lip and running his thumb in small circles on Sherlock’s lower back. “I always thought I’d end up alone, you know? Always. And then you came along and I fell so hard for you my damn orientation shifted on me. I love you. God, how I love you. Just… be patient with me, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled and kissed John’s temple. He steadied him, gently untangling them. He slowly slid back behind him, letting the head of the bed back down a bit. “I’ve got an idea, yeah? Patience works both ways.” His hands closed over John’s. He placed John’s hand back over the spoon. He didn’t speak, just guided John’s hands. Sherlock showed John where the bowl was, chin resting on his shoulder. “Close your eyes, it will make it easier. I know it sounds ridiculous, but try?”

“Sherlock,” he mumbled, disheartened but doing as he was asked, feeling small and foolish even as he allowed Sherlock to manipulate his hands. 

Sherlock let John’s hands go after the second spoonful and just rubbed circles on his hip. He watched and smiled. John was far more resilient than he gave himself credit for. “ _I love you_.” Gaelic, soft, on purpose.

John leaned against him at the hip and carried on trying to eat, cheeks burning but managing it anyhow. A few bites in, his stomach decided that was quite enough and he put the spoon down, pushing the tray away slightly. He exhaled slowly and tipped his head down, one hand seeking out Sherlock’s shoulder before he rest his head there, already tired. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him close, “I’ve got you.” He pressed kisses to the side of John’s head. Molly sneaked in the room and cleared the things away, not wanting to bother them. Mark poked his head in and Sherlock smiled a bit to let him know things were okay.

They were alone again and Sherlock made sure John was settled in against him. He laid them both back with the bed gently, letting them recline more. He snuggled John, “Rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock held John as they both dozed off. Mark was relieved that the two men slept wrapped up in each other for a few hours before John started swimming up in pain. Mark didn’t wait for him to come up completely before he put him back down with pain medicine. Sherlock’s drugs had had enough time to wear off and he dosed him again with the heavy anxiety medication.

Mark had a small moment of guilt over just drugging the two men into sleep but they desperately needed the rest. John to heal and Sherlock to right his mind. Mark stumbled back across the hall. He fell face first into the bed there and was out cold within minutes. He needed to go home and sleep in his own bed for a bit.

All three men slept soundly for hours, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the horizon before anyone stirred.

John came awake talking. With his vision gone, it was an odd shift from sleeping to waking. His English was slurred and thick, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. “It’s makes it bloody difficult to reach the milk is all. Puts me off my day before it’s begun, so if you could just keep the sodding fingertips in a jar on _another shelf_ this would all be resolved, yeah?” 

He frowned as he waited, a hand going to his face to pull away whatever obstruction was holding back his sight, going very still as his hands swept over his face to find nothing blocking his vision. He dropped his hand away and blinked rapidly, pinching his eyes shut tight before opening them again, his breathing stuttering out. “Sherlock,” he said in a rush, reaching straight out in front of him, not yet aware enough to realize he was lying down, having dreamt of standing up and moving about. He had no idea at the moment that he was in hospital. “Sherlock I need help, something’s wrong.” He was trying very hard to keep the panic at bay. 

Sherlock jerked awake, “John? What is it?” his hand reached up trailing along John’s jaw tenderly. “What’s wrong?” He was trying to shake himself awake, figure out what was going on. 

John was pushing himself up, shaking his head before remembering what a terrible idea that was. He felt the bandaging at his head and went still, his sluggish memory slowly catching up to him. 

“Forgot that I’ve lost my sight,” he said gently, the heavy accent sliding away as he calmed down, still slurred but clearer than he’d been speaking in a long while. He rest his palm against his eyes and slowly eased back, turning his face towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock smiled as the tension melted away from him. “Good morning… I think it’s morning. Bit of light outside the windows anyhow. Not much. How are you feeling? Need anything?” Sherlock tenderly stroked along John’s jaw. He was still a bit fuzzy from the drugs, all he knew was that he had John, John was okay, and he was okay. There was time enough for figuring everything else out as he woke up.

John mumbled at Sherlock, letting him know he was fine before shifting and pressing his hands over his eyes. It was easier that way, he could lie to himself that he was blocking his sight, not that it was simply missing. The days prior had been so stressful, he’d not given much thought to it. In all honesty, the idea of losing his sight was horrifying.

He reached out and tugged at Sherlock’s arm, easing himself close enough to tuck his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock wrapped John close to him tenderly. “Still have pieces missing. I remember generally what’s gone on. Fell, tore apart the web, came home, relapse…” He murmured softly, avoiding putting pressure on John’s head.

“I love you. I want to take you home so badly, to forget all of this insanity we’ve gone through.”

John nodded once before his head shouted at him and flexed his grip on Sherlock. “You thought I was a ghost, knocked your brother’s nose out of alignment, brushed up on your Pashto, got a bit of action,” he was smirking as he rattled off a short list, tugging at Sherlock again. “Still here.”

Sherlock was infinitely glad in that moment John could not see how he blushed, “You are impossible.” He huffed slightly as he snuggled against the man. “Feel drugged a bit still. I’ve a feeling Mark dosed me while I was under. Can’t blame him really. I went right out of my head yesterday.” 

“I don’t want to be like this any longer. Make it all stop and take me home,” John mumbled gently, tucking closer to Sherlock and groaning as he shifted his head. He lay still for a short while, just resting against him. It was difficult to believe he’d had major surgery, the darkness lending to an air of surealty. “Are you in your head today?”

“I’m never fully in my head…” Sherlock let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’m here. Fuzzy, but here.” Sherlock yawned again. “We’re going to get you better John. We have to…” There was a small note of desperation to his words. He wanted John better, wanted him chasing Sherlock all over London again.

John reached up slowly and put a hand to Sherlock’s face, touching him gently. “It’s just a scratch,” he whispered with a smile, finding a curl and tugging gently. “I’ll be fine.” He settled back down again and took a deep, slow breath, trying to push himself to sleep. Surely rest would do him good, and it was better than being awake without sight. 

Mark wandered in yawning, having decided to check on the two of them before going to find coffee and breakfast. He was surprised to find Sherlock obviously awake and John’s monitors showing the man at least wasn’t fully down. “Morning,” he said gently, “How are you two?” 

Sherlock smiled a bit, “Mostly here, bit fuzzy, but here.”

Mark nodded, “Kept you under, just really felt it would be best.” 

John shifted against Sherlock, frowning at the voice. It took him a moment to place it. “Mark. Shouldn’t you sleep at some point, mate? No other docs have been at us.” He turned to the man and winced, the new position painful. Sherlock was at his back and John was blissfully aware and calm.  
Mark smiled, voice tired but amused, “Been in bed across the hall from you. I think if you do well today throughout, I’ll go home for twenty-four. Not too far away. Leave the neuro team to check up on you. Nurse can take over Sherlock’s anxiety meds til I get back. Just want you two on the mend.”

Sherlock just held John close, wanting to comfort with his presence.

John shrugged and shifted back, pressing a hand over his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got standing orders in place if my head shorts out again. Go sleep.” He had no other plans aside from trying to trick his own body into rest, not keen to remain awake any longer than necessary. He reached back and tugged at Sherlock, trying to tell if he was alright with that plan.

Sherlock hummed, “I’ll be here. I’m with it today. Promise. Go home Mark.”

Mark laughed softly. “If only all my patients were as friendly as you two about it. Right, yeah. Going to go get some rest then. The wife will appreciate it. See you tomorrow for normal rounds then.” He shut the door gently behind him and made sure there were standing orders for any pain medicine to be taken to the room as soon as humanly possible after requested.

Sherlock tucked up around John as much as he could.

John spent the next five days in a haze of dreaming and waking. His mind was not at all attuned to storing memory without visual input, dreams and fact taking on hazy places for later recall. He was eating more frequently, but still with intense aversion. It was force of will that got him swallowing solids, and only with Sherlock glued to his side, whispering softly to him about nothing at all. 

Mark had taken to going home for a few hours in the evening, as John’s shift between confusion and alertness slowed. He woke up speaking English and went down speaking English, only diverting to Pashto a handful of times and more often than not, while dreaming. As long as Molly or Greg announced themselves, John could mostly place them all straight away. Only his sight remained elusive. He’d been in mostly good spirits, living in the present as much as he could, not giving mind to anything before or to come. He quipped with Sherlock and let Molly brush his hair when she fussed about it. Greg would come by and touch the side of his shoulder or the back of his hand. It was the calmest five days he’d had in a long while. Sherlock was slowly pulling out of his haze of memory, some hours more clear than others. John’s calm seemed to aid Sherlock’s, and together they’d given the week to rest and eating, for the most part. 

So, it was with a heart-stopping jolt of terrified shock that John found himself in the small hours of the morning, pitched sideways, monitors screaming, body cracking down hard against the hospital floor, moments after Sherlock had tried to snatch him back from the harsh dream, fingertips brushing along John’s shirt as he narrowly missed catching the smaller man as he lurched back in startled fright, falling right over the side of the bed.  
Sherlock was near panicked as he tried to get to John. His own leads and lines stopping him. A team of personnel streamed in, alerted by the screaming monitors. Sherlock was forcibly removed from John’s bed. Mark himself popping a sedative in Sherlock’s line when he’d sworn in Gaelic and took a swing at a particularly stout male nurse.

Mark helped get John off the floor as Sherlock continued to drowsily curse at the two nurses holding him in the bed while the sedative had time to work fully. John was carefully put back in bed and leads rearranged as Mark checked him over carefully.

“John, can you talk to me?”

John blinked slowly, his eyes narrowed as the man spoke, “Talk to you,” he whispered, his voice raw and grating, “fuck mate, I think I can see you.” He pressed a trembling hand to his eyes, palms grinding against them before moving them away and blinking furiously, his whole body singing with pain as he reached out a hand towards Sherlock to let him know that he was alright. 

Mark was nothing more than a static humanoid shape, but there was a distinct outline when he moved. John swore and held his head as he stared at Mark. 

Sherlock muttered something at the nurses in Gaelic before shaking his head, “Let go… I’ll stay.” Words partially slurred but coherent. Mark nodded to them as he pulled out a pen light. 

“I’ll give you something for pain in a minute, let me see.” He brought the light up, shining it in John’s left eye, watching as the pupil actually reacted. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard or seen in a while…”

John flinched back hard against the light, groaning as he covered his eyes. “Right, yes, but fuck me that hurt,” he groused, stars cracking along his vision. He took a few slow breaths to calm how his stomach turned and pressed back against the mattress. 

“Sherlock,” he called out, keeping his fingers tight against his head, “you alright?” 

Mark grinned as Sherlock grumped, “Mark shot me up with something. Half fuzzy.” 

Mark rolled his eyes, “You were very obviously cursing us in Gaelic and tried to take Sanford’s head off. If you’re through panicking, I’ll let you back over to John.”

Sherlock huffed, “I’m fine.”

John shifted to the side to make room for Sherlock as he tried once again at the whole seeing things business. He blinked up at the shape he associated with Mark and groaned again. “Bloody hurts,” he groused, reaching out for Sherlock as he noticed him from his peripheral. 

Sherlock was a bit unsteady and Mark touched his shoulder, helping him back into bed with John. Sherlock touched John’s cheek. “Scared me. Couldn’t catch you. Tried. Fell asleep with the rails down. Think you had a nightmare.”

John closed his eyes and pulled Sherlock to him, a whimper of pain at the back of his throat as he pressed his face to Sherlock’s chest. “Bad one. M’s sorry,” he whispered, his ability to cope on his own sharply dropping now that Sherlock was next to him again. 

“Head is killing me,” he whispered, sagging down against Sherlock, “think I can see a bit, though.”

Mark spoke softly, “Giving you some medicine, didn’t want it to startle you, John.” He slowly pushed the pain medication as Sherlock smiled. “Seeing is good. Brilliant actually. Seeing at all is wonderful, yeah?”

John nodded as the medication hit, his side aching, holding tight to Sherlock. “Brilliant,” he whispered honestly. He sighed and sank down into the medication, already falling back asleep. 

With John’s vision returning and Sherlock on a stronger dose of stabilizers the two were finally ready to be released. Mark had come in with the team of surgeons that had worked on John and the psychiatrists who’d been advising for Sherlock, and together they all decided that it was finally time to let them go home, with some strict rules and regular check-ins. John’s leg had healed enough to let him walk in a boot to move short spaces, according to orthopedics. He’d need physical therapy and he’d have to keep off it for anything more than milling about the flat. 

When the meeting was over and the paperwork started to get them home, John sat on the edge of the bed in a daze. It wasn’t until after Sherlock had helped him shower and dress in actual clothes that he began to believe they were leaving. John mourned for his sight, but there was nothing to be done but wait and see. He felt wonderful after all his lines were disconnected and he was untethered from anything. 

The ride home in a car obviously sent by Mycroft was quiet. Mark explained he’d be popping by to check, Mycroft was still footing the bill. John leaned heavily on Sherlock, who all but carried him upstairs, one hand tight around John’s waist. Mrs. Hudson behaved for all the world that nothing had happened when John began to stammer his apologies to her. She waved it off as she flitted around making sure he was settled in his chair with a cuppa and some biscuits, fussing over John like a mother, insisting he not worry over it. Sherlock finally had to gently run her off. 

Sherlock perched in his chair as he watched John. “You really should hurry up and get your eyesight back. I would imagine there are a number of cold cases waiting for us at the Yard.” he actually teased John as they sat there.

John huffed and smiled at Sherlock as he rest in his chair, sinking down into it, savoring the feel of home. He was not tethered to anything, the shunt in his head removed days ago, lines gone, monitors off. He was fully clothed, no chance of a wrong movement exposing his arse to god and all. 

“You’re not allowed back at it yet and you damned well know it,” he said warmly, shifting and carefully pulling at the tea, “domestic for a bit, I’m sorry to say.”

Sherlock huffed and muttered at John in Gaelic on purpose before switching to English. “Bad enough Mark fussing at me, not you too…” He pouted spectacularly with his tone and made faces at John.

He looked around. “She didn’t even offer me one! Mrs. Hudson is supposed to favor me! Oi, get your own grandmotherly type!”

John smirked and popped a biscuit into his mouth, making a show of enjoying it. “Bad luck, mate,” he said with pleasure, humming and going back to his tea. He was exhausted, but glad to be home. He chewed and thought on it for a while, narrowing his eyes as he thought of how long it had been. 

“Are you already bored?”

Sherlock smiled softly, it evident in his words, “No, honestly I am not. I ‘m happy to have you home. Happy to be home. This has been an adventure I’d really rather not do again if its all the same to you.”

John huffed at him, shaking his head. “We are _not_ repeating that any time, ever.” He left out mention of his fear that he’d never be as Sherlock knew him again. His vision had yet to improve any since he pitched himself out of his own hospital bed. John cleared his throat and set down the tea, looking toward Sherlock and trying to blink his colorless form into as sharp of focus as he could manage. 

“We’ve made it back home. I can hardly believe it. Thought that was the end for me that night.” He shook his head and ran a hand over the back of his neck before dropping it back to his lap. “Thank you for staying with me.”

Sherlock hummed as he pushed to his feet. He moved to the kitchen, touching John’s shoulder as he went. He could be heard rattling around as he made himself a cuppa and came back. Settled back in his chair, Sherlock spoke softly, “I thought I’d lost you so many times… Every moment I got with you was absolutely precious, _is_ absolutely precious. I can’t tolerate this world without you. I stayed and will always stay because I love you, John.”

John sat quietly, basking in Sherlock’s words. That Sherlock had been spending time with him and considering that a gift was nearly more than he could bear. He hummed and nodded, looking back in Sherlock’s direction. “Can still see you well enough to know you’ve not tended your hair in the last twelve,” he said gently with a smile, the halo of light from behind Sherlock blocked with a fuzzy mess atop his head. He touched a finger to his lip and let his mind wander. 

He was growing more and more tired, shifting in his seat, tugging the throw wrapped around his legs up higher. “I’m likely to apologize for putting you through all of that for the rest of my life. I am sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed, “I’m likely to tell you to stop apologizing for the rest of our lives.” He huffed, “You just have to tolerate my hair.” There was amusement in his words as he moved back to his feet. He wrapped a hand in John’s. “On your feet. Let’s go to bed, our bed, our flat. Yeah?”

John was up in the next moment, holding tight to Sherlock’s hand, happy to follow him for now. He kept his eyes closed as they walked, the movement pared with the effort of processing hazy images making him dizzy. Sherlock moved as though he was very aware of John’s need for a bit of help and they made it to the bed with no problem. John pulled off his boot and set it aside, sighing as he eased back atop the blankets and settled his head down against the pillow. 

“Fuck me but this is good,” he breathed with relief, enjoying the feel of the bed properly for the first time since he took it up at all. 

Sherlock huckled as he stripped down to his pants. He climbed into the bed beside John, settling down easily. “I missed this mattress nearly as much as I missed you.” He reached out, twining his fingers with John’s. “I- John. I’m sorry for what I put you through while we were home. The- I’m just so sorry. All of it, no excuse.”

John hummed at that, hardly having given any thought to the more negative interaction between them. He pulled Sherlock to him, mumbling softly as he tucked Sherlock’s head down over his own chest and sank his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, fingertips at his scalp. “I’m in for it all, Sherlock. Always have been. Thank you, though. You’ve more than made up for it.” 

He shifted, sliding his hand down Sherlock’s side, realizing he’d stripped down far more than John. “Seems I’m overdressed.” 

Sherlock hummed, “You don’t have to- I mean, I- just. Uh, I usually don’t. It’s been...” Sherlock huffed and cleared his throat. “I normally don’t wear anything to bed. Sorry.”

John cracked a smile and eased Sherlock off of him, sitting up and swaying slightly with the shift, tugging his shirt off and pitching it to the side. He shucked out of his cotton trousers and moved swiftly, pressing Sherlock back to the bed and all but draping over him. He felt across Sherlock’s chest, ensuring he was in the right place, his fingers sliding up to touch Sherlock’s lips. 

He leaned down, following his own fingers, just shy of kissing him. “You are, of course, free to tell me to let you alone. Though, I’d really rather you not.”

Sherlock let out a small sound, “N-no. God, no, don’t leave me alone.” He leaned up, closing the tiny distance between their lips. Sherlock pressed an almost shy kiss to John’s lips. Here in the bedroom, alone and with the both of them mostly mended everything was sharper. Sherlock knew there was a possibility his inexperience could be an impediment. He had no clue what he was doing, really.

John hummed happily as Sherlock kissed him. He responded gently, noting Sherlock’s hesitation, one hand threading in Sherlock’s curls as he took over control of the kiss. He was careful with Sherlock, though he left little room for the man to feel as though he had to lead. When he broke away naturally, John smiled at him, wishing he could see him. “You’ve had me for so long, let me have you for a little while.” He swept his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, no demand, just a soft offer. He nuzzled Sherlock gently to assure him, keeping the mood soft and light for now. 

Sherlock leaned into the touch happily, a soft hum of content escaping him. He relaxed almost immediately. His voice was soft, “Thank you.” Sherlock chewed on his lip as he wrapped an arm around John, trailing fingers slowly down John’s back.

John was calm with him, steady and assured. He’d not forgotten what Sherlock had felt like coming apart for him in the hospital, quite keen to repeat that for the man. He nuzzled down near Sherlock’s ear, gently mouthing along the skin there. “You’re alright,” he whispered warmly, moving to kiss Sherlock’s bitten lip away from his teeth, wanting to ease the tension, “you can touch me as you like,” he added with a warm smile, his fingers trailing along Sherlock’s face in an effort to get a read on him. 

Sherlock hummed softly. His hand trailed along John’s jaw, the other holding him at the small of his back. He was relaxed, but afraid of disappointing John when it boiled down to it. “Want to touch you everywhere, afraid I’m rather uh, not exactly well versed in bringing anyone else…” He let out a soft huff, “Christ… I am a grown man. I do not feel like one right now.”

John shifted so that he had one leg over Sherlock’s hips, sitting up on Sherlock’s lap, keeping his eyes closed as he hummed and picked up one of Sherlock’s hands. He pressed Sherlock’s fingers to his lips and smiled around them. “I know you are new to this,” he whispered before pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s palm, “I got off in my sodding trousers just _listening to you._ Believe me when I say, you are in no danger of doing the wrong thing.” 

He hesitated for one moment before deciding to risk it. His fingers gently wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist before pressing it down to the bed beside Sherlock’s head, tightening his grip. “I’ve...been known historically to be rather um, rather bossy in the bed. I know how to lead this, if you’d like to hand it over.” His cheeks darkened, not with embarrassment but with pure, open _want_.  
There was a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock as his head tilted up, eyes traveling down John’s arm as he did. His gaze settled on John’s hand wrapped around his wrist. The low moan that escaped him startled him and he bit down on his lip. 

Sherlock hadn’t really ever given any thought to things of that nature, quite content before John to take care of his biological urges in a perfunctory manner when they struck him. Irene had certainly inspired a brief look into the things that she did. He’d found himself enjoying the thoughts that came from his research, but he’d soon put them out, having no need to keep them really.

Sherlock finally spoke, “Please, yes.”

John leaned down and pressed their lips together, working Sherlock’s slowly open as his tongue traced Sherlock’s lower lip. He hummed and slowly reached out, tracing across Sherlock’s shoulders, following the line of Sherlock’s free arm until he had Sherlock’s other wrist in hand. He wrapped his fingers tight over the bones and pressed him down, keeping his grip firm without hurting. There was a sharp contrast between controlling and pain, and John had no intention of crossing that. 

He took his time kissing Sherlock, giving him the time to reflect and adjust, to push John away if he needed. He treated him calmly, carefully, wanting to make the man feel as safe as he possibly could. 

Sherlock was surprised by the calm that settled over his mind as John pinned him to the bed. He responded to the kiss a whimper escaping him into John’s mouth. His eyes closed and his fingers curled in, making fists. Desire shot through him and he arched against John. 

“Oh,” John breathed against Sherlock’s lips, leaning down so their chests brushed together, groaning, “that’s fucking beautiful.” He hissed at the feel of being skin to skin with Sherlock, moving his hips and dragging his lips down the side of Sherlock’s neck. 

“You tell me if it’s too much and you want me to stop, okay?” He grazed his teeth over Sherlock’s pulse and hummed happily, keeping his grip on Sherlock tight. 

Sherlock moaned, tilting his head further for John, the words coming easily from him, feeling natural, “Yes, sir.” They were nearly purred as his brain ceased its normal incessant chatter and Sherlock relaxed even more. The calm that came over him with John’s handling was exquisite. He knew he’d have to replay this later, examine it all… For the moment he was perfectly content to sink into the feeling.

“Christ,” John breathed, Sherlock’s address shooting directly to his cock, shutting his head way down. He rocked down against Sherlock and growled gently against the skin between his teeth, hardly remembering to keep himself gentle, that Sherlock was a fucking _virgin_. The thought tore a slow, possessive groan from his chest and he pulled away from Sherlock’s neck to kiss him like the precious thing that he was. 

“You’re a good man, Sherlock,” he murmured, trailing his lips back down Sherlock’s neck, teeth scraping gently over Sherlock’s collarbone as he explored him.

Sherlock’s breathing was slightly ragged already. His hips rolled up against John, sinful noises escaping him. He bared his neck eagerly, John’s teeth driving him hard into the space he’d slowly been sinking into. “Fuck, _please yes_.” Sherlock’s mind shut down on him, just wrapping up around how John was making him feel. 

It was very nearly too much in a beautiful way. He whimpered John’s name as he struggled against the hands at his wrists, wanting to touch him. It was evident Sherlock wasn’t truly trying to get away or anywhere near wanting loose.

John grit his teeth and tipped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment before groaning and shivering hard, Sherlock’s wildly unexpected reactions nearly throwing John over the edge abruptly. He panted open-mouthed against Sherlock’s skin, licking at him as he squeezed his hands, affirming his grip, not wanting to hand an ounce of control to Sherlock at the moment. 

He carried on exploring Sherlock’s chest with his mouth, teeth and lips warring for skin, soft and harsher in random interval. He kept his focus sharp on Sherlock’s reactions, rocking his hips down hard as he mouthed over a dusky nipple. 

Sherlock’s mind had never abandoned him quite like this before and he found that with John in control he had absolutely no fear of it. He worried his lip between his teeth. Sherlock’s breathing was stuttered and hitching as John explored him. He found himself keening, begging for more. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, he was begging for. He just knew he needed it all from John.

John swore under his breath and moved back up Sherlock’s neck, teeth scraping along his jaw as he moved. He dragged Sherlock’s hands up to just above his head, trapping both wrists in one hand as he dragged the other slowly down Sherlock’s chest. “You feel fantastic,” John whispered with a smile, dragging his nails lightly over Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock moaned under John’s ministrations, babbling at John not to stop. He was unable to help the way his hips rocked up against John, seeking friction. He was a mess as he tried desperately to find purchase enough to rub against John. “John, gods _please sir_.” 

He was half-wrecked already and if John could have made him out clearly he’d have seen the color staining Sherlock’s face and chest as desire rocked through him. Want and need twisting hard inside him.

John shivered as Sherlock’s words lit down his spine like fire, making him swear through his teeth, fingers sliding down to slip under the elastic of Sherlock’s pants. He groaned loudly as he pulled Sherlock free of the material, “Oh, I’m glad I got a look at this before,” he whispered as he flexed his grip on Sherlock, “beautiful like the rest of you.” 

He traced his thumb in a circle around the head of him, catching the moisture to ease the glide of his fingers as he wrapped around Sherlock’s cock and pushed his hand down slowly. He hummed his appreciation low in his chest and rocked his hips against him. 

Sherlock groaned, head hitting the pillows with an audible thump. His voice failed him and all he could do was whimper pleadingly. His pulse sounded like it was roaring in his ears and it was all he could do not to come apart right then and there under John.

His head spun as he tried desperately to hang on to himself. His body seemed attuned to every small movement John made and it was driving him dangerously close to the edge already. Christ but John could play him better than Sherlock played the violin.

John wished bitterly for his sight as he listened to Sherlock, rocking his hand down faster, moving in a fluid pace with a bit of twist on the end. “You drive me mad, you beautiful, fucking genius man,” he had no interest in anything other than letting Sherlock know how he felt about him in honesty, needing Sherlock to understand. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s wrists and moved his hand with swift, controlled intent. 

“I love you. Loyal to a fault, reckless, brilliant prat. I need you,” he bent lower and brushed their lips together before pressing into a claiming, indulgent kiss. 

Sherlock gave into the kiss, returning it with barely controlled need behind it. He was moaning and bucking up into John’s hand, struggling with the want to take control of the situation, to touch himself just so. He was desperate, almost there and it showed in his every movement. He whined into the kiss and dared nip at John.

John hummed happily in response, smiling openly, pleased that Sherlock was exploring his limits. “Oh god, yes,” John groaned, rolling his hips down against Sherlock again, his hand slowing down slightly. He pulled back with the intention of looking at Sherlock, huffing as he remembered his limitation. 

“I can’t see you, _damn it_ , tell me how badly you want it, Sherlock, let me hear you,” his voice was low and gravelly, wanting to take in as much as he could despite his lack of vision. 

Sherlock let out a whimper so full of need he barely recognized himself. He gazed up at John, breathing wrecked as he tried to speak. His voice was low, rumbling through his chest hoarsely, “Please, don’t stop. Gods, don’t. I need it. Need you. All of you, John.” He couldn’t think and confessed as much as he rocked his hips up. He was trembling as John loomed over him.

John had died. That was the only explanation for what was happening below him, with Sherlock’s body and Sherlock’s voice moving and wavering as it was for _John_. He moaned as he kicked up the pace with his hand, completely attuned to Sherlock’s reactions, trying like hell to push him over the edge. “Oh god, I want to hear you come for me Sherlock,” he groaned, biting down on the side of Sherlock’s neck just under his ear, breathing heavy against his skin. 

Sherlock’s world stopped as John’s words registered and the bite finally sent him screaming over that edge. Light danced across his vision as everything turned white, pulse roaring through his ears as everything shut down harshly at the pleasure flooding through him. He was dimly aware he was shouting and then murmuring John’s name over and over again. His breathing was ragged, gasping. He was utterly wrecked underneath John. Sherlock struggled for purchase in his mind, trying to swim back out of the haze and finding himself utterly unable to yet.

John eased down to his side, keeping a leg over Sherlock, gentling his hold on Sherlock’s cock while still keeping his grip. He nuzzled along Sherlock’s ear, whispering softly to him, gentle praise and assurances, gradually easing his hold on Sherlock’s wrists to better wrap him in his arms. “That was beautiful, Sherlock,” he whispered as he kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth minutes later, “Thank you for that, you are perfection.”

Sherlock’s breathing had finally settled for the most part and he nuzzled close to John, “Didn’t expect that… Wonderful, amazing even.” He took in a slow shuddering breath. “Every time I think I have you figured out.”

Sherlock hummed in content.

John smiled at him and eased down, dropping his head to the pillow and breathing deep and slow. “Like to keep you guessing,” he said with a grin, one hand going to his stomach as the other wrapped around Sherlock’s fingers. He kept his eyes closed, trying to forget the darkness, letting Sherlock have his time to recover. 

Sherlock rolled to his side after a moment, watching John. He wished desperately for John’s sight to return fully. He wanted to watch John observe him. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John slowly, his hand trailing down John’s chest, across his stomach, stopping only when he reached the elastic of John’s pants. His fingers splayed there, teasing the edges.

John groaned and arched up against Sherlock’s hand, forcibly keeping his own fingers still when he so desperately wanted to reach for Sherlock’s neck. He panted out a surprised breath and swore, shaking his head, his eyes pinching shut in his frustration, wanting to _see_. 

He exhaled and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s bicep, trying to use the slide of muscle under the skin to paint a visual for him, whispering Sherlock’s name. 

Sherlock let out a soft whimper against the kiss, drawing back to whisper against John’s lips. His voice held his intent to submit to John, “Tell me what you want me to do, please.” Sherlock would explore John on his own and relish it when he did, but for the time being he needed the control, the calm, or the newness of it all was liable to shake him apart.

John bucked up at Sherlock’s words, his back arching off the bed as he wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. He curled his fingers in the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head and reached with his free hand to take Sherlock’s fingers in his own. He slid their hands under his own pants, gritting his teeth, swearing colorfully as he curled them around himself. He moved his hand away and spoke low and rough, “Just like you’ve observed,” he said softly, knowing Sherlock would have been putting everything to memory. 

Sherlock moaned low at the hand in his hair as his fingers wrapped around John. He called John’s movements to mind and set about duplicating them. His fingers stroked and slid along John. After a moment though it was too much and Sherlock tugged against the hand in his hair, moving to divest John of his pants.

When he’d been successful Sherlock returned to his movements, head pressing back into John’s fingers. His hand closed around John again and moaned again. The sight of John like that made his breathing hitch.

“Christ, yes.”

John grit his teeth and pulled back sharply on Sherlock’s hair, having caught the few times Sherlock had seemed to want more pressure there, the man’s words driving him to madness. “Oh god, I’ve wanted you for so long,” John groaned, his mind easily calling to the few times he’d drunkenly thought of Sherlock in the shower, and not some beautiful woman. He’d never allowed himself to entertain ideations of Sherlock in his sobriety, and here Sherlock was swearing and pulling John off. 

“Faster, dear god your hands, gods yes,” he groaned as he shifted under Sherlock, keeping a tight grip. 

Sherlock moaned low as he moved faster against John, words spilling out of him he’d never intended on confessing. “Used to lie here, staring at the ceiling, wishing you’d hear me and come downstairs.” His fingers moved over John, working to please him, to draw more of the curses from his lips. Every curse from John thus far having sent a thrill through Sherlock.

“Oh, Christ,” John bit out, the mental image playing vividly. He latched on to the thought of Sherlock handling himself in bed, thinking of _John_ , nearly coming apart right then and there. He let go of Sherlock’s arm and touched his face, swearing loudly as he suddenly fell over the edge at a clever twist of Sherlock’s fingers, tossing his head to the side and twisting his hips up, clipped efforts at Sherlock’s name on his lips. 

Sherlock captured one of John’s fingers in his mouth, sucking down over it lewdly as he worked John through his orgasm. He eased him through it, slowly drawing his mouth away. He took advantage of John’s inability to see as he drew his own hand to his mouth. There was a small moan as Sherlock tasted John on his hand, breathing harshly as he pressed to John. 

John groaned as he pulled his hand back slowly from Sherlock’s face, the memory of Sherlock’s lips around his finger making him crazy even in the immediate aftermath of an incredible orgasm. He lay there, facing the ceiling, panting as he sloppily reached out for Sherlock, pulling him close, humming happily in the wake of it. 

“Quick study,” he panted, sure he’d get some sort of smartassery from the man at his side for the obvious statement. 

Sherlock smirked to himself, “Just that good.” He nuzzled close to John, happy and sated for the moment. His nerves sang with the after effects, buzzing on endorphins. He hummed and nipped lightly at John’s collarbone as John scrubbed a hand through Sherlock’s curls and pulled him down against his chest, wrapping him up close. 

“That was amazing. Christ. Thank you for that, Sherlock, needed it.” He hummed and settled, not at all concerned about the mess they’d made. He tucked his face down to Sherlock’s head and kept his eyes closed, holding him tight. 

Sherlock smiled against John, arm slung around his waist. He snuggled in happily, “Mm, should be thanking you.” Sherlock’s eyes closed and he yawned. “I think napping is in order.” He nuzzled against John’s chest, pressing a small kiss there.

John hummed and wrapped Sherlock in close, obviously moving to get himself more comfortable, settling in for a bit of a sleep. The transfer from hospital to flat had taken more out of John than he cared to admit. He drew a deep breath and settled into the space in his mind reserved for sleeping, where he made his efforts to slip away. 

He was silent for minutes before whispering to Sherlock, “What if it never comes back?” He gave voice to his deepest fear, soft and quiet in the darkness of a room that had held so many whispered confessions already. 

Sherlock’s eyes popped back open and his grip on John tightened, “It will. It’s slow in coming… But if your worst fears come true, then you learn to work with what you have. I’ll be here, right here, always, for you.” He drew one of John’s hands to his face, kissing his palm.

“I love you, John. We will deal with whatever happens together. Always together.”

John went quiet as he listened to Sherlock, trying to let his words settle in. He’d be completely useless to Sherlock without his vision, unable to help with cases or to work as a physician any longer. He took a deep, slow breath, trying to keep himself calm, and nodded in the darkness. Sherlock grew bored so very fast. Just for the hell of it, John blinked his eyes open, willing them to function, struggling to pull anything into focus. 

As he expected, nothing more than a sharp headache came from his efforts. He closed his eyes and turned his face towards Sherlock again, breathing deep, making every effort to drift off for a bit of a rest. 

Sherlock gently stroked his fingers through John’s hair as he closed his eyes again. He continued the ministrations, stroking and petting John as he fell asleep. His hand eventually stilled and rested against the man. Sherlock’s breathing evened out as he drifted deeper into dreamless rest.The calm of Sherlock’s steady breathing eventually lulled John down into sleep. 

The pair of them laid together in a tangle of limbs, inseparably locked together, finally resting comfortably for the first time in far too long.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the 'Explicit' rating for this chapter. If their antics are not your cup of tea, nothing will be lost in the plot by skipping over. Enjoy!

When John came awake, his stomach was growling and his head pounding. It felt like several hours had passed, surely none of his medication was still working. He groaned and rolled to his side where Sherlock had fallen asleep, seeking him out. 

Sherlock gave a soft hum and pressed closer to John as he slowly woke, “Morning. What do you need?” He glanced at the clock. “Medication, need medication. Been too long. Want anything else?” Sherlock tenderly stroked John’s forehead as he struggled to shake off sleep.

“Maybe a bit of tea,” John said quietly, careful of his head. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s bicep and tipped his forehead to his shoulder, pressing close for a moment before letting him go and slinging an arm over his eyes. 

He’d been warned that there would be plenty of symptoms for him to handle at home, sharp headaches and spinning nausea at the top of the list. His fingers curled in the bedsheets and he just focused on breathing. “Can you click on a light as well?” 

Sherlock moved from the bed, stretching nakedly. He felt a pang of sadness that John couldn’t see him. So many movements, consciously and unconsciously made for the man sprawled in the bed. He clicked the light on.

“Be right back.” Sherlock moved out into the kitchen. He could be heard rattling around as he went about preparing tea and a small plate of food for John and himself. Sherlock was humming quietly, a small happy tune he rarely played.  
John pushed himself up in the bed, moving slowly to keep from feeling sick. The light helped him feel more oriented, a soft orange glow threading through hazy shapes shrouded in darkness. He planted his feet on the floor, his wounded foot aching but very close to healed. It would hold his weight. He pushed up, one arm out in front of him as he moved cautiously to the lav. 

He managed his morning needs without destroying anything, only dropping the toothpaste off the edge of the counter. He’d crouched and felt around until he’d got hold of it, making quick work of his teeth and his face before moving back into the room, focusing on finding the edge of the bed without falling down. 

He settled on the soft bedding with a sigh, dragging the blankets over his shoulders, crossing his legs and resting his face in his hands as he waited for Sherlock, his head throbbing. 

Sherlock came back in with a tray, settling it down on the bed with him as he climbed in. He pressed the bottle of water into John’s hands and then the pills. He took the lid off the bottle for John. “It’s open.”

He shifted the tray so that it was between them. When John had taken the pills he pressed the lid into his hand, letting him handle putting it back on. Sherlock had picked up a reusable coffee cup with a lid for John to use at home like this. He hummed, “Tray between us, fruit, cheese, crackers.”

Sherlock sipped from his own lidded cup, rather glad for it in the bedroom. Less chance of tea in the bed sounded good. 

John was at his tea until it was gone, his fingers occasionally tracing the outline of the tray closest to his side. He was going to have to learn to manage this. The idea of inadvertently putting his fingers to all the food meant to be shared between them brought color to his cheeks before he even moved. He breathed slowly, tentatively ghosting his fingers to the edge of the plate.

He bumped a bit of food with a fingertip and snatched it up, not at all caring what he’d managed to collect for himself. A bit of cheese, at least, which he popped into his mouth and slowly chewed, letting his stomach settle a bit with the tea and pain medication. He hummed and shifted on the bed, pulling the blankets tighter over his shoulders. 

Sherlock had seen John’s attempts to hide how lost he was. He slowly reached out and took John’s hand in his, touching the sides of the plate, letting him feel the textures. “Cheese, crackers, grapes and blueberries.” He popped a blueberry into his own mouth. Sherlock was not very hungry, but he worked at the food enough to take his own medications. He hummed softly to himself.

John shoved his pride down viciously and focused on Sherlock, letting him show John where things were. He went for the crackers as his stomach fussed at him, managing a few before giving up and crawling back into the bed, settling his head to his pillow, fingertips on his lips. He closed his eyes and tried to push it all away, already tired from the efforts he’d made. 

Sherlock reached out and ran his hand through John’s hair tenderly. He finished what he wanted of the food before moving from the bed. He took his medications when he dropped the tray back in the kitchen. His shirt from that terrible night still hung over the chair and he hummed. He needed to clean, to sort things out… He shook the need off and moved back to the bedroom; time enough for all that later. He clicked off the light and climbed back into bed with John.

John had been listening to Sherlock, nodding to himself as he heard the rattle of pills. He did not move when Sherlock crawled back into bed, a bit surprised by his return. He tapped his own lip for a moment before tucking deeper into the bed. “It’s...what am I supposed to do with myself? I cannot read, or help you with research, or cases, or hell, clean the flat. I don’t know what to do with myself.” 

He was calm as he spoke, despite the ache in his chest from the words. Hell, he may never handle a weapon again. His entire existence required his sight. He took a deep breath and went quiet, knowing there were not answers anyone could give him. 

Sherlock hummed, “You learn new things. You turn the accessibility options on the laptop. You let me teach to to type properly. We buy you speech to text software. You have faith and patience. Strange coming from me, I know… but.” There was movement as Sherlock shrugged. He wrapped up around John and nuzzled his neck.

He smiled against him. “You show me just how bossy you can be when you feel like it.” He attempted to soothe, to make John smile.

John smiled at him for a moment, tugging gently on a curl before sighing and opening his eyes, trying to focus. “Should let you crack me over the head again, see if it jolts something else loose,” he quipped, running his mind over the possibility of remaining without his sight indefinitely. The thought seized up his heart, an image of himself out on the road, a long orange-tipped walking stick in his hand, tapping at the edges, Sherlock nowhere to be found. He shook his head slowly and tucked his face down to Sherlock’s, breathing him deep. He would not let that happen. One way or another, that would not be what became of him. 

He cleared his throat and sighed, pulling gently at Sherlock. “Why the fuck did I have to go up to that damned roof?”

Sherlock tensed for a fraction of a second. He closed his eyes, “Because I set you off brilliantly.” Sherlock would always harbor guilt over how he’d treated John just before John had escaped. Always. “You thought you were in danger because of me.”

John shook his head. “No, I thought I was in danger because I was off my head. You played music for me and took a nap and I went insane. If Greg hadn’t had to tackle me, I’d have...I don’t know, maybe not have needed...maybe not have lost my sight. It wasn’t you, Sherlock.” 

He tugged at Sherlock, not at all sure of what the man was talking about. It wasn’t like Sherlock to hold guilt for things he did not do. 

Sherlock hummed before taking a deep breath and speaking. “John, I treated you atrociously for days. I provoked you, I attacked you, I purposefully played your nerves… Then when they’d practically begged me not to treat you badly if you didn’t recognize me, I went into a strop and played music that was by all definitions mad.”

John listened to him quietly, running back through his mind. “You...you were withdrawing,” he whispered as his heart sank. Sherlock wasn’t wrong in his assessment. John remembered most of the events leading up to running that last day, remembered how it felt to snap the metal bar free, the nearly heart-stopping rush of escape, terror thrilling up his spine. 

He licked his lip and pressed a shaking hand to his eyes. “I wasn’t...wasn’t what you wanted. Wasn’t put together like you needed.” He shifted to Pashto for reasons he wasn’t entirely clear on. “When... when you tire of me like this, Sherlock, just...just tell me, okay? You don’t have to um, don’t have to...just tell me when it’s enough.” He swallowed thick, Sherlock’s attestation to his behavior shattering the little delusion they’d set between them that Sherlock would tolerate this. He tugged at Sherlock’s curl before dropping his hand away. “Just tell me.”

Sherlock shifted, head snapping back at though John had slapped him. His Pashto was pained, “I- Why would you think.” His breath was drawn in harshly at the realization, “Because I’ve never given you any reason to think otherwise.” He nodded to himself. 

He breathed deeply, letting it out slowly. “I’ve no intention of going anywhere. I love you. I have loved you for a very long time. I’m not- I’m hell to live with, to tolerate, to be around… And if it is ever too much, toss me out on my arse.”

John traced his lip with his finger in a bid to soothe himself, keeping his eyes closed to hold on to his favorite little lie. He tucked his face down and tried to reflect internally for a moment, wanting himself centered, tired of the upset. He cleared his throat and shifted against his pillow. 

“I...Sherlock, I love you. As you are, always as you are. I know that part of who you are is not compatible with...not able to tolerate…” he cleared his throat as he tried to put vocabulary to himself, _blind_ refusing to fall off his tongue. “I won’t go anywhere unless you ask me to. I...I simply don’t expect...just please don’t feel the need to run me off should you decide you want rid of me, okay? Just tell me if that happens, I’ll go. I don’t want to go, but I will.” 

Sherlock’s voice was even, controlled even though he wanted to shout at John for being an idiot. “There is more to me than people see. I’ll not simply run off the man I love because he cannot see. Despite the popular opinion, I am not an unfeeling monster.”

John pushed himself up, crossing his legs under him as he sat there, blankets pooled around his hips, looking down in Sherlock’s direction out of habit. He cracked an irritated half-smile and shook his head, looking away sharply. “Yes, good you told me. I’ve a history of popular opinion regarding one Sherlock Holmes swaying my view.” Even when everyone doubted, John remained steadfast.

His jaw ticked and he pressed shaking fingers to his eyes. “Why Sherlock? Why then did you push me so hard, if not to run me off? Why did you...as you’ve said yourself...why did you have a go at me at every opportunity?” 

Sherlock did not miss a beat. “Withdrawal is a nasty thing. Exceedingly so. I was fresh off eighteen months of doing things I still barely understand and weeks of trying to kill myself because I thought you dead. Because I apparently cannot function as a normal, feeling human being… Which has been pointed out to me at every turn in my life. Maybe it’s time I started listening. Sergeant Donovan was right. You should have stayed away from me. You wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for me.”

He sat up clicking on his bedside lamp. He glared out into the room, his back to John, toes tapping a rhythm on the floor. Suddenly Sherlock was brilliantly itching to sink back into oblivion, to pretend he’d never come up, never hurt John all over again.

John scrubbed a hand over his face and bit back a groan at Sherlock’s sudden shift in his mood. “If I had listened to Donovan, I’d have painted that fucking gray room red.” He turned toward the sound of Sherlock’s voice, trying to follow the dip in the bed to the man, one hand awkwardly bumping too hard against Sherlock’s back, clumsy and searching. He pulled back suddenly, color flooding to his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, holding his hand to his chest as though he’d burned himself, utterly humiliated with his clumsy fumbling. 

Sherlock moved then. He shifted in the bed and drew John into his lap. He buried his face down in John’s hair, “I’m sorry. Christ. Still itch some days for it. I- John. I love you. I would not care what shape you were in. I love you. We will work around your sight. Even if it doesn’t come back, while I’ll be exceedingly upset on your behalf because I know what it means to you… I will still love you, I will still enjoy your company. We will still solve cases. Your brain is alright. You’re still smart, wonderful, even if I don’t tell you often enough.”

John let Sherlock hold him, sinking into the feel of it. He closed his eyes as Sherlock’s voice echoed through his chest, the baritone soothing. He cleared his throat and turned his face to Sherlock, not buying any of it, not willing to argue. He’d take what he could have while he could have it. 

He hummed and shifted, speaking softly. “I thought Mark had your withdraw well managed. Do you need something else to help? I’d not realized you were still craving…” well, of course he was. “I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. You need...need calm and- well, the opposite of all this.” He drew a deep breath and wondered again how the hell they were going to make it. He touched his fingers to his lips and pushed down the disappointment with himself, trying to run his mind over solutions to Sherlock’s craving. 

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, “I’ve craved it before, I will crave it again. Don’t worry. I’ll not give in. Have no reason to give in. Plenty of reasons not to.” Sherlock let out a soft hum. “You looked like you wanted rest and I’ve disturbed it.” He kissed across John’s forehead tenderly.

John shrugged, not really caring at the moment. He’d lost hold of the little bubble of peace they’d made between them. He longed for a book to drop into, biting the inside of his lip at the loss of such a basic pleasure. “I could sleep,” he said, voice heavier than a few minutes ago. He eased to the side, carefully trying to take himself out of Sherlock’s arms to free the man, fumbling as he righted himself and crawled back to his side of the bed, managing to get himself under the blankets, sinking back down to the pillow, fingertips on his lip. 

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair and pulled tightly on his curls for nearly a minute, trying desperately to calm himself. This wasn’t going to work. John very obviously, and rightly blamed Sherlock for everything that had happened. He paid no attention to the tears streaming down his cheeks, merely sunk his other hand into his hair and pulled tightly.

Sherlock shifted so he was crosslegged on the bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he kept a tight grip on his hair and cried silently.

John’s brows knit as Sherlock failed to either lay next to him or get up off the bed. He waited for a few minutes, trying to puzzle out what the man was doing after he shifted. Finally he eased up on his elbow and reached out, his hand bumping against Sherlock’s forearm, trailing his fingers up, tracing along his face. 

He was quiet as he discovered damp cheeks, easing himself up to sitting again. He shifted carefully, moving slower than he normally would in an effort not to crash into Sherlock, snugging up against his side. His hands traced over Sherlock, taking in his position. John exhaled slowly and pulled Sherlock’s hands from his hair. “Talk to me,” he breathed, gripping Sherlock's wrists tight enough to keep his hands from going back into his hair. 

Sherlock’s jaw worked and he was silent, a few sounds escaping him as he tried to find the words. Finally he spoke quietly, “I don’t know how to fix anything. I can’t take it back. I can’t undo it. You have every right to hate me. You should, really. I keep hurting you, sending this sideways. I- it’s like there’s no control left. Like when I shut it down to do the things I needed to do it just left me.”

John hummed at that, understanding as he sank a hand into Sherlock’s curls and pulled him down, moving Sherlock so that he was in John’s arms. “I have never hated you. I do not hate you now. You’re allowed to be in pain, Sherlock.” He settled Sherlock all the way down, resting the side of Sherlock’s head against his thigh, his other hand wrapping around the back of Sherlock’s neck. 

“It’s dizzying, returning from war to tea and the sitting room. You are not alone. The control will come back in time, give it time.” John pulled tight on Sherlock’s hair, just shy of painful, clearly holding him in a controlling grip. 

Sherlock let out a low whimper but relaxed under John’s grip as he gave voice to his worst fear, “What if it doesn’t and it just slowly eats away at me until I’m as mad as he was… It would be so easy to rebuild what he left behind, especially since I destroyed it. One man, taking down all of that? They’d fall to their knees at my feet.”

John pulled back on Sherlock’s hair, tipping the man’s face up, leaning down and speaking low and steady. “Stop that. Stop. You are not a cruel man. The control is right there in your hands, you simply do not see it,” John said with assurance, splaying his hand over Sherlock’s chest and pushing down, pinning him. “We all lose the control for a bit, Sherlock. It is not gone, you’ve lost sight of it. It’s right there with your resolve not to use again. That takes control. You will have it back. No more thoughts like that, Sherlock. You are not a cruel man.” 

John forcibly kept the thrill of fear hidden, his mind tossing him back to the way Sherlock looked in the kitchen, pulling off his shirt, ready to take John to the floor. He breathed slowly, keeping his grip tight. He’d hold Sherlock together with his bare hands, if that’s what it took. 

Sherlock let out a slow sigh of relief. John didn’t think him lost, didn’t think him beyond redemption. “Oh thank gods… I thought-.” He whimpered softly. “I thought you believed me gone.” 

Sherlock finally completely melted into the bed under John’s hands. He was so tired of this, tired of feeling like any moment was going to be his last of himself. “I’m so terrified I’ll lose myself completely.”

“Like hell,” John whispered to him, adjusting his grip tighter. “You lose yourself, I’ll find you. I’ll not let go of you again.” He shook his head and licked his lip. “Sherlock...you...I have never been on my own like you were, but I’ve- I mean, I put a round in that cabbie without a second thought, and I’d do it again without hesitation. Combat changes a man, but it doesn’t...you’re not lost. You’re right here. With me.” 

He eased his grip in Sherlock’s hair, sliding his fingers through the dark locks. “I’ll say it as often as you need to hear it. I already buried you once, it’s not going to happen again. You are not lost.”

Sherlock pressed into John’s thigh. His hand came up, wrapping around John there. “I love you. Thank you for keeping me grounded when I cannot keep myself there. I am trying desperately to be the man you need, the man you deserve. I feel like I fail at every turn and it is not fair to you.” 

He took a deep breath, “I will continue to try until i get it right or you tire of me.”

John shook his head and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again. “Stop that,” he said gently, tugging at his locks. “I’m not letting you go, and you are going to stop trying to drive me away.” 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wishing for the millionth time that he could see Sherlock. He reached up from Sherlock’s chest, tracing his fingers over Sherlock’s face, his jaw working as he wrestled to keep himself steady. He slid his palm across Sherlock’s cheek, capturing the remaining tears there, sliding his fingers around the side of Sherlock’s neck. 

“It’s...it’s got to give. It simply has to.” He swallowed and went quiet, holding Sherlock tight to him. 

Sherlock reached up and moved John’s hand to his throat. He hummed softly. “I will find my control again. I’ll stop this madness. It will give because I will make it. I am yours and you are mine and we will make this work because there is no other alternative.”

He smiled to himself, “We were meant to be, you and I… Remind me to send Samford a present, yes?”

John swept his thumb over Sherlock’s throat and looked away, nodding. “He was rather clever with that, wasn’t he?” He shook his head and gave into a yawn, looking back down to Sherlock before clicking his tongue. “I keep looking at you.” He turned his face away and cleared his throat, tapping the side of Sherlock’s neck with his fingers. “Did you eat?”

Sherlock hummed in answer before clearing his throat, “Yes, enough to settle my stomach for medicine. I’ll eat more for lunch. Promise.” He leaned into John. “I just want to stay like this. Us, together. Always like this.”

John nodded and settled an elbow on his knee, tired but not wanting to shift now that Sherlock had all but asked him to stay as he was. He curled down around him a bit, taking the stress off his core, humming his agreement. 

“Okay, Sherlock, that’s fine,” he whispered, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, leaning to the side slightly. He licked his lip and kept Sherlock close, “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

Sherlock tugged at him. “Lie down. I meant- peaceful, together.” He nudged John with his head. “Idiot.” It was fond, warm, not an insult but a term of endearment as he tugged on him again, voice soft. “I don’t like people touching me. Even Molly, when she comforts, it’s strange, not entirely unwelcome, but still strange. You though. I could do this forever.”

John exhaled in relief as he eased himself away from Sherlock to lie down again, his back already shaking with the tight effort of engaging muscles gone too long without use. He lost a tight sound of discomfort as he hit his side, settling back to the bedding, tamping down on it swiftly. He reached out and missed Sherlock, misjudging where he remembered him being a moment ago, vertigo robbing him of his orientation. 

He tried again, frustrated, blinking as he tried to get some visual feedback, Sherlock’s outline lost to the two-dimensional imagery of the furniture behind the man. He swore and growled under his breath, “Put a fucking bell on you,” he muttered in his humiliation, trying to lighten the mood despite himself, “I...come here, yeah?” 

Sherlock tucked himself against John and pressed his head to John’s shoulder, “Collar and bell? You _are_ rather bossy.” Sherlock wished John could see his smirk. He reassured him gently, “If I wore a bell you’d be able to find me all the time though. You’d be bossing me about.” He mimicked John’s voice with surprising accuracy, “Sherlock, it’s half three in the morning, why are you walking over the furniture in the sitting room!?”

John returned in kind, a less impressive impersonation of Sherlock, but recognizable all the same, “Don’t be an idiot John, I’m clearly mucking through the flat to goad you into bossing me about as I unabashedly enjoy it so.” 

He reached up and tugged at Sherlock’s curls, “Don’t need a bell to put you on your knees if I want, I assure you.” He smirked at the man and shook his head. 

Sherlock was glad, again, for a moment, that John could not see him. His cheeks went red as he realized, belatedly, John would no doubt feel the heat of them. A small sound of want and dismay at himself twisted up and escaped him. He finally spoke hoarsely, “That isn’t fair.”

John shifted, one hand in Sherlock’s hair, a brow rising despite himself as he turned to face Sherlock. “Oh?” He said with a smile, licking his lip before curling Sherlock to him and abruptly kissing him as though Sherlock belonged to him, possessive and demanding, making Sherlock yield to him, not waiting to see how the man would react as he hedged his bets. He pulled Sherlock back away from him by the hand in the man’s hair. 

“I could not, if you’d rather. I aim to please,” he said with a soft smile, easing his grip on Sherlock to let him react. 

Sherlock’s hand came up, fingertips brushing over his lips where John had kissed him so demandingly. He whimpered softly as he tried to speak. He finally huffed, voice low and gravelly, “Then don’t stop. Don’t- I mean…” Sherlock was completely flustered by it all. He wanted John in control of him so badly it frightened him. He’d not been aware of how much he wanted that until John had broached it.

Now here he was wanting to beg for it. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Sherlock hummed, unwilling to admit how much the idea of wearing something for John appealed to him. A bell, perhaps not, but something? Sherlock moaned at the thought, cheeks heating all over again as he realized he’d done it.

John smiled and tugged at Sherlock’s hair, having blissfully caught every little sound the man was making. “Sherlock,” he said calmly, dropping a hand around Sherlock’s throat, “there is no shame in this.” 

He shifted back and pushed himself up higher on his elbow. “Come over here, just settle on your back.”

Sherlock moved, settling in on his back. He closed his eyes, speaking softly, “Not ashamed. Bit overwhelmed at the intensity of the feelings.” He trailed fingers down John’s chest. “It’s a little frightening to suddenly, acutely be aware of just how much I want and need you to control me. How much the idea of wearing something to show your possession appeals to me.”

John went still at Sherlock’s words. He hummed as he considered what Sherlock was saying. This was...startling talk so early in the game. “I’ve never...not as a lifestyle. I- Sherlock you’ve not...you’ve not even slept with me yet. Perhaps…” he cleared his throat and leaned down to kiss Sherlock again, needing him to understand he wasn’t backing away. “One step at a time, Sherlock, you’ve been asexual your entire life, this is not um, not beginner stuff. Let’s just...one step at a time.”

Sherlock huffed, “I’ve not been asexual. Christ. And that’s not what I meant, exactly. I-” He muttered in Gaelic, curses obviously lacing the small string of words that bubbled from him. He took a deep breath and tried again. “People frequently wear things to show possession of one another. Most married couples never take theirs off.”

He hummed softly, “I’d never really explored this side of things, briefly, when I met Irene, yes. It was fascinating, but she was not exactly my type. Not sure I even realized how heavily I leaned toward the male form until then. I deleted most of it.” He shook his head, “Not asexual. perfectly capable of and have been sexually attracted to a myriad of people through the years. I wank. Just still a virgin.”

John nodded at that and hummed as he traced his finger over Sherlock’s face. “I wish I could see you,” he said softly, outlining Sherlock’s features, trying to be soothing to the man. “I didn’t mean to offend, you’re a difficult one to figure out. I- I’m here for whatever you’d like to explore….within reason...and I- whatever I can do to help you, I will.” 

He sighed and scrubbed a hand at the back of his neck, feeling entirely inadequate to offer Sherlock much of anything at all. 

Sherlock smiled, “Not offended. Frustrated with my lack of communication skills. I get flustered talking about things of a sexual nature and I should not. I’m an adult. I get frustrated with myself and often it is mistaken for anger. I love you. I just want to be in your arms. Want to be reassured. I’m- right now I am still entirely unsteady with myself and it isn’t fair to put this amount of pressure on you.”

He reached, wrapping his arm around John. “I love you, forgive me for being an arse?”

“Every single day,” John said with a smile, tracing his fingers over Sherlock’s lips before leaning down to kiss him again, one hand sliding up and wrapping around Sherlock’s wrist. He hooked a leg over Sherlock’s hips and settled down atop of him again. 

“Sexuality is fluid, Sherlock. Don’t try to peg it down into your neat little sock index, yeah? It will never fit there.” He scraped his teeth over Sherlock’s lower lip and hummed against him, settling down on Sherlock’s chest, smiling at him. “We will walk it out together. It’s all alright, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nearly purred at John. “Of course it’s alright. You’re here.” He nipped at John, happy to have the man on him. “I missed you, so much. I- every day. In my wallet. That ID card you lost… I nicked it. I can’t even remember why now. But, every night.” His voice cracked. “I found it about two weeks in. I’d pull it out, stare at your face on it, remembering why I had to do what I was doing, so I could come home to you.”

John traced along Sherlock’s temple with his free hand, keeping Sherlock’s wrist pinned down, noting with interest a shift in Sherlock’s temperament and curious to see if there was a correlation. The idea of Sherlock being so...sentimental...was disconcerting. He hummed and nuzzled down along the side of Sherlock’s neck, reaching up to turn Sherlock’s head for him with a hand in his hair. 

“I’d have given you a decent picture if you’d wanted one,” he mumbled against the skin of Sherlock’s neck, allowing his breath to ghost over the skin there before applying the suggestion of teeth. There was something soothing, however wrong it was, in knowing that Sherlock had pined for him as well. 

“I had this board. Christ, Greg will likely tell you about it later,” John shook his head and rest his face down against the exposed side of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock bared his neck further for John. He sighed softly, relaxing again. “I want pictures of us together for my wallet. If you tell anyone I will deny being so sentimental.” There was a huff to his words, a threat that didn’t really exist.

Sherlock soaked in the attention John was paying him. He did make a small purring sound of contentment as John pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck. This peacefulness was bliss. John drove the thoughts of inadequacy and fear from his mind. Stilled the racing thoughts.

John hovered as he was for awhile, face down to Sherlock’s neck, letting him remain undisturbed. He slowly sank more of his weight down on the man, wishing to hell he’d more endurance. He was already starting to ache again, yawning and tired. “No one would believe me if I gave away your sentiment. You put on an impressive show.” 

He nuzzled Sherlock and went quiet, resting fully on Sherlock’s chest now, hand still tight around his wrist, fingers running in small circles at the top of his head. 

Sherlock wrapped his free arm around John’s waist and snugged them fully together. “Rest, I make a rather good heating pad.” Sherlock was at ease again, enjoying the closeness fully. “You may tell Lestrade. Let him lord it over me in the future. You may even show him my wallet after I procure said pictures.”

John shifted, Sherlock’s voice nearly startling him with how fast he was dropping back into sleep. “Keep up telling me what I _may_ do and you’re likely to have trouble sitting the rest of the week,” he smirked and tugged at Sherlock’s hair, keeping his eyes closed, settling better against Sherlock’s chest. 

“You _may_ ask Greg about the Lunacy Board, or so Anderson dubbed it.” He cracked a shallow laugh and thread his leg through Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock made a strangled noise, “You are an evil man, John Watson.” He hummed, fingers making small circles on John’s side. “Remind me next time I need someone to punch, Anderson deserves it.”

He smiled, gently scraping his nails across John’s lower back. “You are amazing.”

John shivered at the nails on his back and hummed happily, already dipping back down to sleep. “Not so bad yourself,” he murmured, dropping back to Pashto, nuzzling under Sherlock’s jaw. He progressively relaxed, easing into sleep, the force of his grip ebbing away until his breathing evened out and he went completely lax.

Sherlock very happily held John to him. He lay awake for some time, just listening to John’s breathing. His hand eventually stilled it’s movements on John’s back though, drifting off to sleep himself. Warm and comforted by John’s presence.

John had been comfortably resting, for perhaps the first time that year, when Mrs. Hudson’s gentle, worried voice pulled him violently awake. He darted up, on his feet, totally starkers and forgetting that he had lost his sight, holding tight to her arm as his heart thundered in his chest. “Are you okay?” He asked in a rush, feeling sick from the abrupt shift in sleeping and waking. 

Mrs. Hudson squeaked at him, her eyes to the ceiling as she held still. “So sorry to wake you dears, I am. Mycroft is in the sitting, I’ll just...go put on the kettle, let you boys...have a minute.” 

John let the flustered woman go, pressing a shaking hand over his eyes as he took a step back and dropped down to the mattress, completely missing it, landing hard on the floor instead. He swore and groaned, dropping his head back to the bedding behind him. 

Sherlock came awake with start and leaned over the bed. “John?” He was confused and he heard someone in the kitchen. “Christ, does everyone have to come in?” He slid off the bed and gently pulled John to his feet. Sherlock clicked on the light.

He murmured, “Do you know who is here?” Sherlock tried to shake the sleep off himself.”

John’s hands were shaking from the sickening rush of adrenalin, reaching back out for Sherlock, off-center and without his sight. “Sherlock,” he whispered in a rush, gritting his teeth as panic threatened at his heels, stepping closer to where he figured the taller man to be standing. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, tucking his face down against the top of his head, “I’ve got you, John.” He rubbed a hand slowly over John’s back. He pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head. “I’m sorry. I’ve got you. What’s going on?”

John relaxed as soon as Sherlock folded him close, shivering in the wake of the rush. He shook his head and mumbled against Sherlock’s chest, keeping his face pressed tight to him, “M-Mycroft is here. No one else wakes me up but you here out, okay?” He exhaled a wavering breath and pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, wondering if he would actually sick up as his stomach was threatening. 

Sherlock let out a low snarl as his body language changed. Within seconds he was reeling himself back in. He took a few slow, deep breaths. “No one else wakes you. I- we need clothing, though I’ve half a mind to stalk out there naked and toss him out on his arse.”

John breathed a shadow of a laugh and kept a tight hold of Sherlock, “Wait, please wait,” he whispered, still trying to gather himself together. Not having his sight was making it far more difficult to settle himself. Sherlock had changed his posture to something far more threatening, and though John knew he was not challenging him personally, it was off putting so soon after that rapid cascade of protective worry for little Mrs. Hudson to crashing down against the floor, anger laced around him toward Mycroft. 

He finally drew a deep breath and stepped away from Sherlock, hand in the air, searching out the border of a dresser or the bed, swearing as he flailed about like an idiot for some sort of guidepost. 

Sherlock steadied himself. He gently put John’s hand on his dresser. Sherlock moved to the lav and got two warm cloths. He used the first one on himself, a quick series of movements to get the worst of the dried mess off of himself.

He moved back into the bedroom, speaking softly. “No time for a shower I’m afraid.” he leaned in and kissed John gently. “You want to do it?” He touched John’s hand with the cloth. He could feel where the dried, flaking evidence of earlier was. He didn’t need his sight for that.

John took the cloth and began to scrub himself absently as he leaned against the dresser, one drawer open, hopelessly feeling for something identifiable to put on. He’d not considered how tricky dressing was going to be. Well, not dressing in and of itself, but finding attire...he was going to need help for _everything._

“I uh, you’ve got to um, find something for me I-” he shook his head and awkwardly held the cloth, putting his head to the idea of tossing it in the laundry. He shifted his weight, loathing that he so suddenly needed to function, wanting nothing more than to walk out of their room and throttle Mycroft Holmes within an inch of his life.

“Don’t you ever laugh at my sock index again.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around John from behind, hands splayed against his stomach. He plucked the cloth from John’s hand and slung it back into the lav. Sherlock nuzzled along the side of John’s head. “I’ve got you. I promise.” Sherlock pulled out a fresh pair of pants and some soft cotton trousers for John. He finally released him and bent, fishing out a black tee. “These will do. You’ve been out of hospital hardly any time at all. Unless you want battle garments… I could find you something suitably intimidating. I think I’ll put on a suit. Best to meet him head on I think.”

John took the clothing and made swift work of pulling into it, accustomed to dressing in the pitch dark. He settled down on the bed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “What do you suppose he wants? I don’t-” he slowed as he realized the desperation in his voice. He was too tired for a fight. He nearly laid back down, his entire body shaking, not ready at all for open hostility. 

“I’m not at all going to be friendly to that twat, forgive the language. Or don’t. Fuck him.” 

Sherlock grinned wickedly, “Oh, my dearest John… I don’t expect you to be. Fuck him indeed.” Sherlock made short work of dressing in one of his best suits. It had been at the hospital with him and hadn’t made it up to his closet yet. Thankfully it was clean and unwrinkled. Sherlock hummed to himself. “Are you ready?”

John dragged a hand over his face and nodded, anger and nerves sliding through his gut. He shook his head, pressing his palm to his temple before reaching out for Sherlock, loathing that he was going to have to be led out to the sitting room. He may not be able to see, but he would gladly put Mycroft to the floor if he could get a hand on him. 

Sherlock took John’s hand in his. He tucked John’s arm in his elbow and escorted him out to the sitting room. Mycroft was in Sherlock’s chair and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He settled John in his chair without making it look like John needed very much help at all. He stood protectively beside John, clasping his hands behind his back. “Mycroft, to what do I owe the pleasure. Need to bleed some more or wasn’t that day in the hospital enough?”

Sherlock’s chin was tilted at that particular angle that drove Mycroft insane, the very same one Mycroft used to intimidate people himself. 

Mycroft gazed evenly at his brother. “I don’t think you’re fit to care for John. According to your medical records you’re now on antidepressants and anxiety medications. I’ve put in a few calls. You’re coming with me this afternoon. I’ve arranged live-in care for John. Just until you’re out of hospital.”

Sherlock took in a slow breath, eyes narrowing at Mycroft. The brothers stared at one another.

John was on his feet, quite aware of the furniture in the room, his eyes closed as he moved fluidly. He had a hand fisted in expensive fabric, presumably at Mycroft’s chest, hauling him out of the chair with strength he had on loan thanks to the cold rage sliding through his veins. He turned them and shoved Mycroft back hard, keeping his feet planted where they were despite his want to advance the man. 

“Get the fuck out of my flat. Sherlock is going nowhere, and no one is coming to live in with me. Get out.” 

Mycroft stumbled back, narrowly keeping his balance. Sherlock watched as he cleared his throat and adjusted his clothing. His voice was cold. “In case you happened to forget, I’ve control over Sherlock. You see, he’s never had the paperwork reversed. I’ve gone to the courts with my concerns and it’s been deemed in Sherlock’s best interests that he be sanctioned.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. He put a hand on John’s shoulder. The tremor in his hand evident. “They nearly killed me last time…”

John froze in place at Mycroft’s words. He had forgotten the legal angle at play here. Sherlock was afraid at his back, and John could not fucking see. He took a deep breath and pointed in Mycroft’s direction, “Whatever this is about, there is another solution. Stop this, Mycroft. I called you a friend, let you in close, _stop this._ ” 

He shifted to stand better between Sherlock and his brother. “Sherlock is detoxed, he’s eating, he’s sleeping. Half of London is on the medication he’s taking. Not grounds for sanctioning him and you damn well know it. Whatever happens here, he’s not going with you, one way or another.” 

Mycroft stared at the two men. His voice stayed cold, “I tried to get him to come back, John. This could have all been avoided if he’d just come back. He chose the work over you and you wound up in Afghanistan. How long do you think it will be before he grows tired of your state. Tired of playing nursemaid? Do you think _sentiment_ will keep my brother at your side?”

Sherlock snarled, “Get out. Get. The. Fuck. Out. My partner already told you once. Don’t make me toss you out on your arse.”

John held up a hand, shaking his head, palm out to Mycroft. “None of that is relevant to your efforts to forcibly hospitalizing a sane man. You are pathetically deflecting. What is your end goal here? He’s functional. He’s rational. He’s in his right mind. This is a petty tet-a-tet and I’ve no interest in it. Mycroft, this is beneath you.” 

John was outwardly calm while screaming inside his head, all of his fears laid out bare for him to examine, knowing the truth of Mycroft’s words. He’d not let him win this, though. Even if Sherlock left John, he’d not see him institutionalized. 

Mycroft’s voice softened. “John, you’ve never witnessed him come off. He’s going to lose it very shortly, likely relapse. He cut Greg the last time. The knife wound he talks about getting from the crazed junkie? Brushes it off?”

Sherlock made a pained sound. He remembered. He remembered everything. How Greg had ever forgiven him, he didn’t know.

John set that to his mind, nodding as he filed it away for later. “Right, well. I nicked a fiver from mum’s purse and drank before my age. The trials of youth. He’s detoxed. He’s clean with the help of a dedicated physician. You cannot preemptively lock him away, Mycroft. That’s not how it works.” 

He moved forward, leaving Sherlock behind him, walking up closer to Mycroft, following the sound of his slight movements. “Mycroft,” he said gently, clearing his throat, hoping he was positioned properly to address him and not the damned sofa, “it’s been hell. Please, please stop. Just a bit of calm, Mycroft, please.” 

It was a last-ditch effort, not expecting the man to hear him. Mycroft had betrayed John and had betrayed Sherlock. 

Mycroft smoothed his clothing again. “After pushing the paperwork through, they’ll not let me release him. They will allow transfer of responsibility. So be it on your head, John. You can be responsible for him. I’m tired of it. Tired of looking after a grown man who continues to behave as though there are no consequences to his actions.” Mycroft cleared his throat.

He shifted slightly looking at Sherlock. “The surgery is rather expensive. Do make sure you have your new conservator send me the appropriate amount. Mummy expects us all home for Christmas this year. John included. I do hope you two will be happy together. Maybe John can keep you even. God knows I’ve tried.”

“Speaking of a grown man who behaves as though there are no consequences. Jesus fucking Christ, Mycroft, you had your sizable nose cracked properly, can you not find the backbone to simply handle it yourself? Get the fuck out. Go. Feel free to shove Christmas dinner right up your arse.” John had advanced, following the voice, a hand on Mycroft’s chest as he began pressing him back to the door. “Fucking disappointing. Just...Christ, your brother is _alive_ and this- just get the fuck out.” 

Mycroft stilled and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “I _knew_ he was alive. I also knew you would find him. Don’t dally in matters you don’t understand _Doctor_ Watson.” Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, voice dripping with venom. “How long, Sherlock? How long before he winds up just like Victor?”

Sherlock’s knees nearly buckled on him and Mycroft pushed harder. “You think I’m out just because you broke my nose? You killed him, Sherlock. You bloody well _killed_ the boy. How long before it happens to John? How long before you take another person out of my life permanently?” Sherlock did hit the floor then, a soft choking sob falling from his lips.

John was breathing harshly between parted lips, pulling his hand off Mycroft’s chest as his world tipped sideways. _Another person out of my life permanently_. Was Mycroft actually legitimately concerned for John? He took a step back, listening to Sherlock behind him, floundering in the darkness. 

“Okay...okay someone start explaining,” he said quietly, his heart racing, sick with adrenalin as his hands started shaking hard. 

Mycroft gently guided John to the nearby kitchen chair. “Sit. Before you fall down. Please, John.” He moved across the room and pulled Sherlock to his feet, tucking him down into his chair. Mycroft ran his hand over his face and Sherlock looked up, feeling shattered.

Sherlock’s voice finally sounded. “Victor was Mycroft’s- friend. I always suspected there was m-more. But they never got around to it… I-I, Victor was the first person I was genuinely attracted to.” Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The younger Holmes let out a soft sob. Mycroft took a moment, trying to reassure Sherlock even though they’d just been ready to kill one another.

John kept his feet, gripping the back of the kitchen chair in a white-knuckled grip, only to realize Sherlock’s shirt from that night was still hanging there. John swallowed and tipped his head down, recalling the violent man that had stood in Sherlock’s place just before it all went to hell. His stomach twisted on him, his hands sweating, forehead slick with it. He exhaled and addressed the floor, wondering if he’d somehow been played a fool for this many years. People could hide themselves impressively, John knew, no stranger to the long con. 

“Can we get to the killing him bit, please?” His voice was numb and heavy, pitch wavering, entire body tense, no idea what was going on between the brothers at the moment. 

Mycroft looked back up to John, shushing Sherlock gently. “It was a car accident. Victor begged Sherlock not to drive in his condition. Sherlock forced him into the car.” Sherlock let out a low moan as Mycroft’s words brought the memory up clearly. “Told him it would be fine. Flipped the convertible. We still have yet to figure out just how Sherlock survived it.” Sherlock’s hands were fisted in his hair. He could see everything, the split in Victor’s scalp, the way his skull looked under it, the massive crack running down the exposed bone.

Mycroft’s voice was almost tender, “You see, John. Sherlock has a long history of being infinitely dangerous to those around him. Sometimes it’s unintentional, sometimes he tries to open his friend’s stomach with a well hidden, handcrafted blade.”

“Mycroft,” John snapped at him, even as his knees threatened him, “any number of intoxicated teenagers are guilty of the same. Youth is short-sighted. Boy with a crush will do things to impress the object of his affection.” He dragged a hand over his face, “What threat was there with Greg? Was he high at the time? For fuck’s sake, Mycroft, you speak as though you’ve never-” he shook his head, the back of his skull thundering at him, each pulse sparking yellow and gold across his non-existant vision, the shapes having left him as well. Only the contrast of light and dark remained. 

He cleared his throat and spoke softly. “I trust him, Mycroft. I don’t really give a fuck if you think that’s insane. He’s...he’s the only man who’s remained. I’m...I love him. I don’t care. Send whatever papers you need to send. I want to believe your intentions are good, but you cannot see how much harm you are doing. I am asking you again to please leave.” John tightened his hold on the back of the chair, wanting very much to go to Sherlock, not wanting to hit the floor if his legs gave out on him. 

Mycroft crouched in front of Sherlock, he took his brother in. He spoke softly, “I’ll figure out how to drop it. Okay? I’ll let you go…” Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, “Didn’t mean to take him from you.” Mycroft nodded, “I know. I do, I know. Be careful Sherlock. You… when you want to see me. If you want to see me.” 

Mycroft hugged his brother before standing and moving out of the flat. The door shut behind him and the flat fell silent except for Sherlock’s sniffles.

John dragged a cold hand over his face before focusing on the sounds from Sherlock, letting go of the back of the chair and setting his jaw, determined to get to him. He moved awkwardly, feeling sick and entirely off balance, his head pounding. He managed it without going to the ground, his leg bumping against Sherlock’s chair, hands out in search of him. “I’ve got you, I’ve...it’s alright...I’ve got you,” he assured, wrapping his fingers in the fabric of Sherlock’s suit, finding his head and sinking a hand into Sherlock’s curls, his own stomach twisting as he pulled Sherlock to rest against him, determined to keep his feet. “I love you, I’m sorry that...I’m sorry.” 

“Wasn’t high when I cut Greg. Fully sober. Angry, locked me where I couldn’t get out… Made a bloody shiv out of a toothbrush. I legitimately tried to kill Greg with a toothbrush for locking me up.” His voice was quiet. He was mostly limp against John, feeling like everything had been drained from him. He was a monster, just like everyone said he was.

“There must be more to it, Sherlock. Greg doesn’t just brush things like that off.” John held Sherlock to him, trying to understand. “He lets you work with the Yard. He trusts you entirely. You are omitting something.” He was going to fall. John shifted his stance and dragged his free hand down over his face again, ears ringing from the stress. His other hand remained in Sherlock’s hair, fingers rubbing small circles at the back of his head. 

Sherlock pulled himself up. He wrapped an arm around John helping him back to the bedroom. John looked exceedingly unwell. He settled John on the edge of the bed and spoke as he began stripping out of the suit. The most telling sign of how he was feeling was the sound of the expensive material hitting the floor.

“I might have been locked in the thought that I was trapped in my dealer’s den…”

John itched to get his fingers back on some part of the man, leaning forward and breathing slowly, trying to master himself. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Might have been? Sherlock please, for fuck’s sake, be clear,” his voice was hardly over a whisper, wanting a better handle on the situation. 

Sherlock curled up on the bed behind John, “Was… Thought I was stuck in my dealer’s den. Thought he just was keeping me there, watching me for laughs. When Greg came to check on me, I thought it was the dealer. Tried to kill him out of anger for locking me up when he had drugs I could have been taking.”

Well. He’d asked, hadn’t he? John dragged his hands through his hair and rest his face on his palms, leaned forward on his elbows. “You don’t...don’t use again ever. Not ever. _Ever_.” 

He was disappointed, but it was retroactive. He could hardly hold the sins of Sherlock’s past over his head when the very man he stabbed had forgiven him. He shook his head and that was the end of it, up on his feet and narrowly to the lav before he was sicking up the small bit of tea and crackers he’d managed, the crash of adrenalin more than he could handle. Mycroft’s threat to take Sherlock away had been horrific. 

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and made it to the lav. He ran cool water over a cloth before handing it to John. He couldn’t think straight beyond John’s demand that he never use. “Never again.” He’d not needed to use with John to concentrate on. When he thought John was gone was when he finally relapsed.

He stumbled back to the bed, head fuzzy as he sat on the edge of it.

John kept his grip on the counter, leaned over the bowl, breathing harshly with a cold cloth in his hand. He fumbled about, hitting the lever, sliding over to wash his face and take a brush to his teeth. Yet again, Sherlock needed him when he was bumped right up to the edge. 

He pressed the cloth to the back of his neck, letting his head hang, trying to soothe himself before returning to Sherlock, entirely unsettled and feeling incredibly small. He dragged it off his neck and stood up, making his way back to the bed with a hand in front of him. 

He found Sherlock’s shoulder before he hit the edge of the bed, shakily pulling the man to him, one hand wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other in his hair. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, putting his entire focus to Sherlock. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist. “You should lie down, John. You’re shaking and unwell. I am and will be okay. I’d just not thought about either incident in years. Can still remember… _everything_. Come lie down.”

Sherlock was rather numb, shutting down parts of himself selectively until he could deal with what was going on. Right now was not the time.

John stayed as he was. “Stop lying to me, Sherlock,” he said with a bit more force, “you’re so far away from ‘okay,’ that it’s laughable to say as much. Christ, Mycroft is a prat.” He tugged at Sherlock’s hair, tightening his grip at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Talk to me. You have to talk to me. I can’t...can’t handle these secrets between us just _talk_.” 

Sherlock made a small sound of distress, “Lie down, _please_. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything, just lie down with me, please.”

John exhaled slowly and let Sherlock go, not wanting to add to the man’s distress. He moved around the side of the bed, feeling his way around as he crawled up to his side of the bed. He built up the pillows at the headboard and settled back against them, sitting up, not sure if he could tolerate lying down just yet. 

“Come here, god, please just come here,” John rasped at him, opening his arms, staring up towards the ceiling. 

Sherlock moved to John. He tucked in against him, balling up as small as he could get, a small whimper escaping him as he wrapped up against John. His voice was soft, “Where would you like me to start?”

John wrapped him up as tight as he could manage in his arms, bending a leg up to help hold Sherlock more securely to him. He nuzzled down, one hand tight at the back of his neck. “What is in your head that you’re shutting down right now? Tell it to me, don’t lock it away.” 

Sherlock hummed, “Violence use to be commonplace. I fought, frequently, reveled in it. Lived for it” He cleared his throat. “Narrowly avoided being sliced open frequently. Did my fair share of cutting people. Never killed, except Victor… can still remember the crack in his skull. Could see it. Line running across exposed bone. Jagged, knew… even as addled as I was. I knew.”

He shifted a bit, getting more comfortable. “Then after the fall… Everything came back. All of it. And I _liked_ it. Now I’m here. I have no control and Mycroft is dangerously close to being right. I’ve hurt people on purpose before. What if I do it to you?”

Sherlock’s doubt in his own restraint towards John made John feel exceedingly vulnerable in his current state, robbed of his sight. Were he fully intact, he’d have no issue going toe-to-toe with Sherlock. As it was, should the man turn on him, he hadn’t a chance in hell. 

He shrugged and swept a hand over his face. “You told me...the night I thought you were going to do it to me...told me you’d never honestly hurt me. Does that not hold?” He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair in a bid to calm himself. “I’ve had a hell of a lot of folks try to kill me, Sherlock. If your hand is the way I go, well, it would be a far better way than I’d imagined. I’m not leaving.”

Sherlock pressed his face against John, “Went through too much hell to harm you myself. Mycroft’s an ass. A fucking ass.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “He’s always had this ability to make me doubt myself. I loathe it.” he took in a deep, slow breath. “I love you. I won’t hurt you. I can’t hurt you. I’d- no. Never you. Not you. I was coming off hard and didn’t punch you… not even after I provoked you into punching me.”

John tugged at Sherlock’s hair lightly. “Oi. _Frightened_ me into punching you, git. Don’t do that to me again.” He shivered and exhaled slowly, sick to death of his body. He used to accept stress endlessly. This was not where he wanted to hit his breaking point. 

“I’ve always trusted you. Mycroft may give you doubt, but maybe...maybe you can keep hold of how I’ve never deviated. You scared me as an addict coming down, I lost sight of _you_. I’d been tortured, so give me a bit of slack. But when I know you are you, I’ve never wavered.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I’m me. I’m just me, nothing else. No drugs, just me. I love you. I’m sorry I frightened you. Mycroft… He’s… I don’t know. I have me though. I’m here. There’s been absolutely nothing in me that’s wanted to hurt you. All I want to do is take care of you and be taken care of by you. Just, us, being us.”

John hummed, narrowing his eyes despite his inability to see, not liking where Sherlock’s head was taking him. “Hey,” John tugged at his hair again, tipping Sherlock’s head back, “just me here with you. I’m not afraid of you, Sherlock.” He leaned down and nuzzled Sherlock to get his bearings before pressing his lips to the side of Sherlock’s neck, mouthing along the skin there. 

“I have you,” John whispered against Sherlock’s skin, pressing his lips suddenly to Sherlock’s. “I’m willing to guess I can drop you down harder than any drug if you give me the chance to.” John was a bit out of practice with the harder dealings, his latest string of girlfriends before Sherlock pitched off the roof were rather...delicate. He had no doubt though that he could take Sherlock down when he needed it. Like...now. “I love you, and I’m going to help you. Let me...let me do this.” 

He cleared his throat and closed his eyes, needing a moment to focus. “Get out of the bed, Sherlock, turn the lights off and come back. Wait for me on your knees at the side of the bed, hands on your knees, back straight.”  
Sherlock licked his lips the only hesitation a brief kiss to John’s chest. He slipped out of bed, moving to turn off the lights. He shut and locked their bedroom door. A smile ran across his face, _our room._ He was careful crossing the room in the darkness, moving to settle by the bed on his knees, hands splayed over his knees, back straight, just as John had requested.

John listened to him, noting the new darkness and smiling to himself. He edged over to the side of the bed, waiting until Sherlock disrupted the air to drop his feet to the floor. He reached out and touched the side of Sherlock’s face, glad for the luck. His fingers trailed down the side of Sherlock’s neck as he leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. 

“You with me, Sherlock?” He asked quietly, smiling against his lips. 

There was a sound of assent from Sherlock before he finally managed to find his voice, “Yes John, sir.” It rolled off his tongue easily. John sank him down to where his mind didn’t scream so loudly at him fairly easily. He arched his neck into John’s touches, eyes fluttering closed as he concentrated on the feeling.

John nodded and thread his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling tight but not painful. He wanted to put Sherlock’s mind right off everything else. New stimuli never failed to distract Sherlock, despite himself. John’s free hand trailed along Sherlock’s jaw, fingertips going to his lips. “I want you to do something for me,” he said quietly, calm and steady in his handling of the man. 

John pulled Sherlock’s lower lip down with the pad of his thumb, gently pressing into his mouth. He rest the pad on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue and tugged lightly at his hair, “think you can manage it?”

Sherlock licked John’s thumb and nipped lightly at his thumb. He sucked John’s thumb into his mouth, running his tongue along it before slowly drawing back. “Yes, sir.”

John bit down on the moan at that little display and drew his hand away. He reached down and freed himself from his pants, hissing at the shift in temperature. Sherlock’s constant use of _sir_ , pared with his open natural inclination to this, was killing him slowly. 

John tightened the grip in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him forward and in, kissing him possessively, growling as he pulled back. “Christ, Sherlock,” he murmured as he pulled Sherlock to his lap, “open, no teeth,” he said gently, nearly losing it at the idea of handling him so. 

Sherlock licked his lips. He disobeyed enough to drag his tongue along John slowly. Sherlock was inexperienced but he’d spent a great deal of time on the internet in his youth and even as an adult, frequently exploring new avenues and types of pornography strictly for amusement purposes, much like the crap telly John had got him into. He liked to shout at the screen about how unrealistic parts of it were… some though had left valuable tips in his mind that he’d actually not deleted.

“Fuck,” John swore, shaking his head, “not fucking fair. Can’t...be good at _sodding everything_ ,” he grit his teeth and eased his grip on Sherlock, still holding tight with enough space to let the man guide himself somewhat. He curled his free hand into the bedding and tipped his head back, groaning.

Sherlock brushed his lips along John as he spoke, “Usually not very good at shutting up when appropriate.” He drawled the words, the smartass in him back in full force. He sounded more like himself in that moment than he had nearly since he’d come back home.

He sank down over John and let out a moan as he did. His eyes closed again as he took in the feelings, paying close attention to every sound and movement John made.

“Yeah,” John groaned, curling down around Sherlock, “best idea I’ve ever had. It’s decided.” He tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair as he tipped his own head back, allowing Sherlock freedom to pace himself out of curiosity. His toes curled and he forced himself to breathe. 

Sherlock could not help the smirk that formed around John and he fair attacked him. Sherlock sucked down over John. He moved in ways he imagined he would like, tongue dragging along John. He gripped his knees tightly, resisting the urge to touch John, he’d not given him permission. 

John let Sherlock at him for as long as it took to get his mind running again. He shuddered and suddenly gripped him tight, fingers getting a solid grip in his hair. He slowed Sherlock’s pace, moving up, rolling to meet Sherlock’s lips. 

“You...Jesus...are you keeping your hands there because I didn’t tell you to touch?” 

Sherlock hummed against John pulling away long enough to answer, “You told me to place them on my knees… You told me to use my mouth.” Sherlock was dead serious. He licked slowly along John again.

John huffed a laugh over the groan Sherlock’s tongue ripped out of him, shaking his head. “I’ve died. I’m dead. This is my brain shutting off and this is the blissful fucking sendoff,” he prattled off to himself. “Oh god, do you _want_ to use your hands? Fuck, _ask me_ ,” he panted, his hips jerking just at the thought. It had been _years_ since his last proper sub and that bloke had been dull and listless in the end. This was _Sherlock_ on his knees _obeying him_ over rules regarding John’s cock of all things. 

“Fuck, oh fuck,” he hissed to himself, his hand suddenly dropping down and wrapping around himself tight, squeezing brutally to keep himself from falling over the edge. “Christ, like a rutting teenager.” 

Sherlock licked his lips, low, rough drawl vibrating through his chest, “John, please may I use my hands on you? I’d really like to touch you now.” The last word he said was done with a distinctly sinful purr, “Sir.”

John swore colorfully in Pashto and English alike, hissing and leaning forward, his hand tight in Sherlock’s hair. “Request _denied_ ,” he purred back, a smile on his lips, wanting to see what Sherlock would do with that. He pulled him back down before he could protest, rocking his hips up, feeling high as a damned kite. 

He let out a frustrated groan before and swallowing John down as far as he could in retaliation. Sherlock nosed John’s hair and swallowed against him. Struggling with himself to hold it for just a moment longer before he pulled back off with a lewd sound. Sherlock leaned in again, tongue working him, fingers digging into his own knees.

“Granted, fuck, granted,” John hissed as Sherlock took him apart seemingly without effort. He curled his fingers into the bedding and Sherlock’s hair, restraining from holding the man still and just having at him. 

He opened his eyes and dropped his head to look, only to remember he couldn’t see. He swore loudly and flexed up to Sherlock’s lips, angry and wildly turned on in a confusing mix. 

Sherlock’s hands shot up and wrapped at John’s hips. He touched him everywhere he could get to John, hand tucking between his legs and cupping and fondling him as he sucked down over him again. Sherlock was on a mission to take John completely apart, wanting to draw more of those curses and moans from him.

John just let him move, keeping hold of him, his hips rocking to meet him, small clipped whimpers and lewd groans falling past his lips. He tapped Sherlock physically with his hand several times as he tried to warn him, “Sh- close, fuck- close,” he was openly panting, trying to find his bearings, heat coiling up at the base of his spine as he rushed toward the edge. 

Sherlock merely sank lower on John, sucking more. His left hand squeezed John’s him in reassurance as he continued his ministrations. He wanted John to come apart for him. Needed to draw this out of the man he’d gone to his knees for. 

John lost it with a clipped shout, holding tight to the back of Sherlock’s head, letting his own fall back as he stared at the shock of lights in the darkness, his nerves humming as he was torn right over the edge, heat from Sherlock wrapped around him and everything for a perfect moment just still and calm and wonderful. He slowly came down, sagging back against the bed, his hands going lax as he struggled to get his breathing back, patting the bed beside him in a silent bid for Sherlock. 

Sherlock gently withdrew from John and moved up onto the bed beside him. He let out a pleased hum as he curled up nuzzling close to him, smiling happily. He was thoroughly glad that John was pleased with him.

John pulled him close and pressed a lingering kiss to Sherlock’s forehead before tucking him down under his chin. “‘S illegal, I’m sure. All of that. Just off the books.” He shook his head and huffed a laugh, “I can take a bit of abuse if this is what I’ve to look forward to at the end of the day.” 

John hummed and squeezed Sherlock tight, focusing back on what he could hear from him. 

Sherlock started laughing. A true, deep baritone laugh that filled the room. He pressed his face against John as he laughed. He tried to catch his breath and there were scattered apologies through it. Even able to say ‘not at you, swear’ once before dissolving into laughter again. He needed it. The levity, the smart arsed remarks they tossed back and forth. It rocked through him beautifully, feeling like he was finally reclaiming their pre-fall relationship.

John was so relieved at the sound of unexpected laughter from Sherlock that he nearly cried. He smiled along with him, laughing himself from time to time with the infectious nature of Sherlock’s rich tones. He smirked and settled down more against the bed, pleased with the shift between them. 

Sherlock finally stopped laughing, still huffing from time to time. “I- oh, _Christ_. John… Did we really just snark back and forth during and after oral sex?” His body shook with another round of giggling and he tucked his face back against John. He took in a deep breath. “Oh god. Yes… I think- I think we’re going to be fine.”

John smiled in the dark and lay still and quiet, pleased to hell that he’d derailed Sherlock’s spiraling mindset. He reached out and tugged at the man after a moment, “Remind me to gloat later,” he murmured, the exhaustion from the day tugging at him. The sex had been a blissful reprieve from the ache in his head and the disquiet of his body, but as the seconds ticked past, he was slowly reminded that he was still fresh from hospital, had bodily pulled a man from a chair, and had lost everything he’d eaten that day. 

He shrugged it off as much as he was able, nuzzling down against Sherlock, still exceedingly pleased with it all. 

Sherlock nuzzled John happily, a smile on his face, “Mm. you need anything?” His hand splayed across John’s hip. He wanted to make sure John was set before he went to sleep. “Need some medicine, water, anything?”

He made gentle circles on John’s hip. Sherlock wanted him to rest easy after that. After the day. His voice was soft, no sadness in it, just thankfulness, “Thank you for protecting me from Mycroft.”

John nodded, glad to be right up next to Sherlock. “I need some medicine, and probably a bit of juice,” he asked softly. “I love you, I’m never going to let anyone...especially your brother. Not going to let that happen.” 

He was quieter, his body rapidly losing strength in the wake of it all. 

Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “Apple or orange? You were sick earlier. Apple might be easier, not as acidic on top of stomach acid in your esophagus.” Sherlock was rattling facts and thoughts like he normally did as he withdrew from the bed.

John was already rolling to his side, tucking himself away as he tried to get under the blankets. “Don’t care,” he whispered, swallowing again and settling, one hand sliding up to wrap in his own hair, shivering slightly in need of rest. He’d overdone it. Worth it, but fully overdid it. 

Sherlock unlocked the door, wandering out to the kitchen he got John a glass of apple juice and a package of crackers. He moved back into the room, helping John gently to sit up. He wrapped John’s hand around the glass. He gathered up two of John’s pain pills. He gently put them in John’s other hand.

His movements were tender, full of love. He felt like himself for the first time in a long time.

John leaned hard against Sherlock and took the pills with the juice, trying to get himself settled. He was rolling hard in the crash of it all, delayed from the bliss of sex, endorphins chasing away all else as dopamine ruled, but now that it was done, he was utterly depleted. Mycroft had scared the fucking Christ out of him, and being so exposed and threatened with a stranger coming to take charge while Sherlock was torn away…

He tried to sip at the juice, handing it back to Sherlock after a few minutes. 

Sherlock settled it on the bedside table. “Juice and crackers there, if you need them. No pressure to eat or drink, just there.” He crawled back into bed with John and snuggled close to him. “I love you, very, very much.”

John eased back down and tipped his forehead to Sherlock’s arm, breathing slowly as the painkillers broke apart in his belly, making him even more sick at his stomach than he had been. He reached up as the room began to spin, wrapping a hand to Sherlock’s bicep and gritting his teeth. He just clung to him, willing everything to settle back down so that he could rest. 

Sherlock leaned gently across John and scooped up the zofran. He popped the pill out of its little blister. “John, zofran, under your tongue.” A week in the hospital together in the same bed made Sherlock adept at knowing what was going on just from John’s grips and small sounds he made. He moved on instinct, just out to soothe his- whatever John was. His everything.  
John complied without speaking, knowing historically that speech only made him more ill. He closed his eyes and let the tablet dissolve, wildly grateful for Sherlock next to him. He pressed closer to the man and rest his head on Sherlock’s chest, trying to focus on the steady beat of his heart. 

“‘M sorry,” he murmured as the tablet slowly began to take effect, sleep tugging hard at him. 

Sherlock hummed softly, rubbing John’s back gently. “Don’t be. I love you. Get some rest my love.” He closed his own eyes, tired from the stress of the day. He held John close to him. Sherlock, while worried about John, was happy, in bliss. He knew John was okay, in pain, sick, but okay.

John hardly held awake long enough to hear him, dropping off hard into sleep, wrapped up as close to Sherlock as he could get in an effort to ease the discomfort. The drugs hummed through his system and he was out without dreams, easing easily into the rest he so desperately needed. 

Sherlock followed John soon after, listening to his even breathing and relaxing. He dreamt of John, good dreams for once. Colors and the sea crashing behind him. Sherlock held the man close, even in his sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some sexy times, more angst...

John did not surface for hours and hours. He slept through the afternoon, well into the night. It was touching half three in the morning when he finally swam back up, his head aching and painfully thirsty. He called out as soon as his eyes cracked open, forgetting himself, lost when encountering the darkness. 

Sherlock’s grip on him tightened, his eyes shot open, “John? I have you. I’m here. Are you okay?” He was gently trailing his fingers along John’s jaw. “It’s alright. We’re home, Baker Street. Our room.”

John tipped his head down to Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing fast as his heart thundered in his chest. “I don’t like the dark,” he murmured in crisp English, remembering where he was as soon as Sherlock had spoken to him. He groaned and pushed himself up, a hand on the side of his head, fumbling for water. “Is there water? God my head hurts, I need some water,” he rambled, wishing he’d just stayed asleep. 

“Give me a moment.” Sherlock slipped out of the bed, gently letting John down to the bed when he did. He moved to the kitchen rapidly, grabbing a bottle of water. Sherlock moved back into the room and clicked on a lamp to give John some light. He smiled as he sat on the bed, touching John’s cheek. “I have some water love.” He put the bottle in his hand.

John took the water and powered it down, panting as he killed three quarters of it in one go. His head throbbed from holding his breath for so long to drink and he sighed, leaning forward against Sherlock, mumbling to him over the pulse in his ears, “Has it been four hours? Can I have something more for my head?” 

Sherlock swiped the pills off the table and pulled two tablets out. “Oh, love I should have set an alarm. It’s been near twelve.” He pressed the pills to John’s hand feeling like an ass for not having woken to check on John. He wrapped his hand around John’s leg tenderly.

The awareness of time made John relax, he swallowed the pills down and let his posture droop. He’d been taken off guard waking up hurting again, worried something had gone wrong. He held onto Sherlock’s arm and breathed for a moment, “English still, yeah?” He needed to confirm he was okay. “‘s okay, needed to sleep glad you didn’t wake me. English. I’m speaking English.”

Sherlock held him close, nuzzling down on the top of his head, “Still English. You’re okay. We just slept entirely too long, let your head get bad. I am sorry love.”

He carded his hand through John’s hair slowly. “I love you, so very much.” Sherlock was still groggy but wanted to reassure John.

John nodded and sagged fully against Sherlock, feeling bad and just wanting to sleep. “Thank you for helping me,” he murmured as he gave up on his own weight, letting Sherlock shoulder it. He leaned into the fingers sliding through his hair and shifted to get closer, already starting to drift off against him again. 

Sherlock smiled as he let them slowly sink back down to the mattress. He curled John to him tenderly, stroking his hair still. Sherlock was nodding off as well, content to be close to John, knowing he was safe.

When John woke again, he was in much better shape. He knew where he was as soon as awareness hit him and he hummed softly, shifting in Sherlock’s arms, waking up slowly. He shifted in the bed to press better to him, mumbling softly, “Awake?” 

“Do you have coffee?” Sherlock’s answer was barely a rumble. He didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. “If not, the answer is decidedly no.” He chuckled and nuzzled John.

John smirked and shifted again, intentionally moving a bit harsher, playfully pulling Sherlock out of sleep while feigning the effort at comfort. “You’re the preparer of coffee now, thanks,” he rejoined with a smile, tugging at Sherlock openly after a few moments. “Wake up. I’m bored without you.”

Sherlock grumbled. “I am not moving from this bed and you cannot make me John Hamish Watson.” Sherlock attempted to bury his face under the covers, voice muffled, “Unless you’re dragging me out for sex, sir forget it.” Sherlock smirked, hoping to trip John up with that.

John slid a hand under the blankets and goosed him hard, shaking his head. “Lip,” he smirked in warning, taking Sherlock’s moment of distraction to his advantage, tugging the blankets clean off the taller man and bundling up in them himself, making a show of getting comfortable. “Coffee sounds wonderful, thanks for offering.”

Sherlock had yelped loudly at the goosing. He muttered in Gaelic at John, obviously cursing him as he stumbled out of the bed. “Keep using me like this and I’m going to start demanding trinkets to wear.” He made his way into the kitchen and soon enough the smell of coffee was filling the air.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, footfalls heavy on purpose. “Do you want food? I am not cooking… but I will run downstairs. Might even do it naked, wonder if they’d appreciate it. You seem to.”

“I knew you were a damned exhibitionist. Speedy’s in your pants is better than Buckingham in a sheet. I’m not hungry though, but you’ve got to eat something.” He shook his head and smiled in Sherlock’s general direction, snugging down into the thieved blankets. 

Sherlock huffed. “You got nothing of note in you yesterday. I’m used to going days without eating…”

“Oi, I’ve not been living in a palace. Used to not eating as well. Not hungry. You promised to eat. Eat something.” He tugged the blanket up higher and pointedly eased back into the bed, making a show of trying to get a bit more shuteye. 

Sherlock stripped out of his boxers in the doorway and flung them to the bed, landing them perfectly on John’s head. He smirked moving through the flat naked. “Hope you’re enjoying the show if you’ve still got cameras, Mycroft!” He fixed their coffees and hummed as he made toast with John’s favorite, hard to find jam. Maybe he could convince him to eat one piece of toast.

John flinched at the thought. If Mycroft fucking Holmes had cameras in his flat, John was going to kill the wanker himself. “He’s a dead man if there are fucking cameras in my goddamn flat,” John called out, rolling to his side and stuffing his head under a pillow, suddenly very cross. He wrapped his arms around his chest and set his jaw, angry that he was quite impotent at the moment to do much of anything other than shout. 

Sherlock came back bearing the coffees and toast. “I checked the dust. If they’re here, they’ve been here a very long time, before I came back… doubt Mycroft was spying on you. Our flat, don’t make me banish you back upstairs. Come out and drink this coffee you kicked me out of bed for, brute.”

“Am a brute, don’t forget it,” he grumbled, easing out from under the blankets and pillows he harbored under, blinking in Sherlock’s general direction, glad to at least be making out outlines. He held his hand out, irritated with his loss of autonomy. “Hate everything,” he huffed, scrubbing his free hand over his head before petulantly dropping it away. 

He put the coffee in John’s hand and let the toast with the rare jam pass close by. He settled in on the bed next to John and sipped the coffee. It was a blend he’d discovered in his travels and brought back, hoping John would like it. Intending it as a bribe.

John sipped at the coffee and leaned his shoulder against Sherlock’s. He hummed after a moment, appreciative of the brew. “It’s good, thank you.” He was still in a rotten mood, the idea of Mycroft near his home dragging a good bit of anger through him. “Fucking git. Thought -like an idiot- that he was my friend. Nearly got me again yesterday with that shit.” He was loose with his vernaculars, bitter and sulking as he worked at the coffee. 

Sherlock sipped his coffee and took a bite of toast. He let out a hum of approval, “I see why you like this jam so well. It is wonderful. Mycroft’s a horse’s arse. Pay him no mind.” He was settled. John had drawn out so much of Sherlock with his ministrations, settled his mind so very well that Sherlock was feeling better than he had in nearly two years.

John made some sort of disgruntled noise and went back to his coffee, quiet until he’d finished. He leaned over with one hand, feeling out the edge of the dresser before leaning over and setting the empty mug down. He sat there for a few minutes, quiet, trying to decide what to do with himself. The loss of his vision left him woefully locked up in his head, making mental escape very difficult. 

He dropped back down to the bed on his side, dragging the blankets up to his ear, his back to Sherlock though he did edge closer to him, the curve of his spine against the side of Sherlock’s thigh, head shoved back under a pillow. 

Sherlock reached out and put a hand on John’s shoulder. He rubbed gently there, “You are awfully adorable when you’re grumpy.” He popped the last bite of toast into his mouth and finished his coffee. He set the plate and coffee mug aside as he continued rubbing John’s arm.

John muttered something at him without pulling away, wishing he could simply go back to sleep, somehow not tired enough to do so. The coffee was a poor choice, but it had been good. He turned his face to Sherlock’s hip and mumbled against the man. “Nothing to do, just want to sleep. Everything is too hard.” His voice was clearly petulant and he tugged at Sherlock gently, just because he could. 

Sherlock pulled the pillow off John’s head, “Well, I’m here. Certainly you can’t be too bored with a naked, willing man in your bed.” He smirked to himself, the words a low rumble. “Brute.” John’s hair had grown long and Sherlock ran his hands through it. He wasn’t sure how the man wasn’t going mad yet. Sherlock found he loved running his fingers through it.

John perked up a bit at that, humming and leaning into Sherlock’s fingers. He huffed and sat back up quite suddenly, just wanting to shift his position. His head throbbed at him in warning and he shook it off. “It’s entirely unfair that I’ve not seen you naked.” He groused as though it was entirely Sherlock’s doing and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Tell the world to take a hike, would you? I’m done with it for now.”

Sherlock tilted his head up, “Hear that? John Watson’s done with you world. Bugger right off, come back later. Thanks. Bye.” He hummed to himself, “Not sure it’s listening to me, John.” He grasped one of John’s hands in his and slowly ran it down his chest, across his abdomen and brushed dangerously close to his cock before sliding down his thigh. “So look in other ways.”

John swore and leaned up and in, his lips suddenly on the side of Sherlock’s neck. “Terrible man,” he groused fondly, grazing his teeth over Sherlock’s ear, smiling at the curl that ended up between his lips. John kept his hand moving, slowly tracing along Sherlock’s hip before pressing him back down to the mattress. 

He let his fingers trail back over Sherlock’s abdomen, fingertips mapping the jagged scar, wishing he’d been there to help fix him. He hummed to himself as he carried on mapping out his chest. 

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, a soft sigh escaping him. His voice was low, rumbling through his chest, “I do rather adore your hands on me.” Sherlock was relaxed, happy, as he watched John. He desperately hoped the man regained his sight soon. John was strong and if he didn’t he’d be okay, he’d adjust, but Sherlock knew it was driving him mad.

Sherlock reached out, running his hand slowly through John’s hair. He loved John so much it ached that he couldn’t fix him.

John leaned into Sherlock’s fingers with a pleased hum, currently outlining Sherlock’s ribs, his touch firm enough not to tickle. He was more aware now than when sighted of each little break in the skin, every feather-white line of scaring, many small enough for him to have missed. He slowly eased down, brushing his lips to each imperfection his sensitive fingers found, creating a mental map of him. 

He was working along Sherlock’s collarbone, lips pausing at the dip in his shoulder, the crevice where a bullet had torn through the muscle. He eased back enough to explore with his fingers, his touch ghosting and light. He did not speak, there were not words for this. Instead he carried on moving over Sherlock, exploring him at leisure, lips finding damage to soothe, pressing as much feeling into every caress as he could manage. 

Sherlock gave small sighs and hums and John worked over him. His fingers worked through John’s hair, massaging his scalp in places tenderly as he laid with his eyes closed against the headboard. Sherlock was fair puddled against the mattress under John’s kisses and touches. There was a small almost purr that rumbled through him. This was perfect.

It came very naturally as John explored Sherlock, for his lips to make their way to the side of Sherlock’s cock. He hummed as the warm flesh bumped against his cheek, breathing in deep, fingernails grazing over the soft skin that stretched over Sherlock's hipbones. 

He rest his cheek on Sherlock’s upper thigh, humming to himself as he palmed the opposite side of Sherlock’s cock and licked a stripe up the side, the very point of his tongue on the sensitive underside. He blew gently across the damp skin, focusing on Sherlock’s reactions to him. 

Sherlock groaned low, fingers tightening for a moment in John’s hair before loosening again. A small shudder of pleasure ran through him. He opened his eyes to watch John with some fascination. He murmured softly in Gaelic to himself as his hand carded through John’s hair.

John smiled to himself, leaning in close enough for his lips to brush against Sherlock as he spoke, “I can’t see you, stick to a language I can understand.” With that, John slowly circled the head of Sherlock’s cock and took his time sinking down on him. He had to shift his position, stop resting on Sherlock’s thigh as he took him in, adjusting for their height and Sherlock’s delightful size. He hummed, loud and deep as he felt the man hit the back of his throat and slide down, swallowing around him, fingers tightening on Sherlock’s hip. 

Sherlock’s English was quite clear as he cursed loudly. John had taken him by surprise. Sherlock’s focus was drawn straight to John, nothing else mattered. His hand tangled in John’s hair though he didn’t pull or direct, just grounded himself to John. He took in a ragged breath. “Oh, fuck me…” he finally breathed out.”

John pulled back slowly, openly pleased with himself, keeping slow as he showed Sherlock exactly what it felt like to have a tongue move over his cock. He traced the line of him, sliding the tip of his tongue around the underside before pulling entirely off and looking up at Sherlock. He swore when he remembered himself and dropped back down, wrapping a hand at the base of the man as he started to move with intent. He was slow to build a rhythm, drawing it out as long as he could manage. 

Sherlock’s breathing was erratic, whimpering moans drawn from him with most of John’s movements. His hands were fisted in the bed clothes. He moaned loudly at a particularly good movement from John. His head thumped back against the headboard as he begged John not to stop.

John reached up and grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands after fumbling for it a moment, dragging it back to his head. He groaned around Sherlock and began to work in earnest. He kept a hand at the base of him, following along with his lips, moving as Sherlock moved. He was trying to push him over the edge, wildly turned on by Sherlock’s reactions. 

Sherlock cursed as his fingers tangled in John’s hair again, “Christ, John, yes.” He panted as he drew right to the edge. His eyes flew open and he gazed down at John. The sight of it all was too much. Sherlock arched as his body tensed. His fingers squeezed John’s hair in a grip that was likely somewhat painful as he came hard. He tried to watched but wound up thumping back against the headboard again, eyes closing as he swore colorfully in most of the languages he knew.

John swallowed him down, holding tight to him as he rode out Sherlock’s brilliant orgasm. He pulled away only after he ensured Sherlock was clean and cared for. He slowly moved back up Sherlock’s body, trailing kisses along as he did so, pulling Sherlock over to him and gently trailing his fingers over Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock curled up to John, his hands ran against John as he nuzzled in close. He slowly managed to get his breathing back under control. He murmured softly to himself, words unintelligible. His eyes were closed and he was basking in the feelings.

John smiled to himself, sliding a leg up over Sherlock’s hip, nuzzling him. “I love you. You sound...god you sound amazing.” He swallowed down the urge to voice his disappointment at not being able to watch, exhaling and settling down on the pillow next to Sherlock’s head, pressing a kiss to his temple as he waited for Sherlock to recover.

Sherlock hummed in contentment. “I love you. That was- indescribable. Brilliant, beautiful, wonderful… Christ, John. Thank you.” He leaned into him. “Seen it, done it, but having it done…” He nuzzled against John’s head. He still couldn’t think well.

 

John hummed happily, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I’m not going to lie, it’s a huge turn-on being able to walk you through this. You… god… you are incredible.” He licked his lip and tugged at a curl, happy for now, the irritation from the morning slowly abating. 

Sherlock huffed a small laugh. “Can’t help but wondering why I waited this long. Exceedingly glad you are the one I’m finding out with though.” He leaned in, kissing John softly. He just wanted to be close to him for now. 

Sherlock’s voice was quiet, a low rumble. “I didn’t imagine I’d ever be this settled. This grateful for someone else. Thank you, John… for being you.”

John had no idea how to respond to that, going quiet and letting Sherlock rest beside him. He tucked his fingers back to his own lips, thinking on Sherlock’s words. He hummed and nodded after a few minutes. “I’m glad you are settled. I’ll always settle you. You don’t have to do these things alone anymore.” He thought back to Sherlock’s effort at quitting smoking, and smiled to himself. If only he’d put Sherlock on his knees that day, when he could see and stand without the room spinning. 

He sighed and shook off the thought, no sense dwelling. 

Sherlock nuzzled John again. He was content to lie there with him. Happy that the two of them were finding their way slowly but surely. Sherlock smiled. “I’m glad I have you. You’ve no idea how much John. I don’t think I can adequately express it. Sentiment has never been my forte… But you seem to inspire quite a large amount.”

John pet his palm down Sherlock’s chest, over and over again, trying to keep him soothed and settled. “Is it difficult?” He asked quietly, “I imagine it’s… not comfortable, suddenly feeling differently than you are accustomed. I- it was like that for me, when I moved in with you. As soon as I put the cabbie down, I knew it shifted. I’ve never been one to...to lean on anyone else. When I started doing that with you, it was wonderful and horrifying in equal measure.” 

He touched his fingers back to his lips, suddenly back in his head, walking away from the stain Sherlock had left on the sidewalk, waiting for Greg to show up and take his statement. He shifted uncomfortably and tried to pull himself back to the moment. 

Sherlock brushed his lips against John’s temple. “It’s new. Not entirely uncomfortable because it’s you. It seems easier. I find I don’t mind the sentiment at all.” He smiled against John’s head. He wanted to take John out, to show the world that he had John Watson and John had him. He wasn’t sure where the overwhelming feeling to make sure people knew came from…

He hummed at the thought and pulled closer to John. “I love you.”

A smile ghosted over John’s lips and he nodded again, sighing as he let himself sink back down against Sherlock. “I want to go see a different neurologist,” he said after a few minutes, scrubbing his hand over his eyes, “I need something more of an answer here. I can’t stand this. If I’m going to… if it never comes back, I’ve got to start learning how to deal with it. If it’s going to come back, then I want to do whatever can be done to speed that up.” 

He cleared his throat and shook his head, chewing on his lip. He took a deep breath and whispered softly to Sherlock, “I don’t...I don’t want to do this if I’m-”

Sherlock stilled, “Don’t want to do what? I’ll take you to anyone you want to be seen by.” He was alarmed, he had no idea what John meant but he tried not to panic. Every time they’d fought it was because one or the other had misunderstood.

John shook his head, tilting his face down to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m- there’s a specialist I worked with a few years back, specialized in TBI. I...maybe he can help or suggest something.” He tucked down against Sherlock and held quiet, cursing himself for the slip, debating getting up and trying to shower to see if that would help calm him back down. 

Sherlock nodded, “Give me the name and I will get you in to see him, yeah? I’ll ask nicely I promise.” He’d do anything for John. Even if it meant crawling to Mycroft for favors and string pulling.

John shook his head as he slowly pushed himself back up. “He’s a friend, I can call him, get a consult without booking through his office. Thank you, though.” He dragged a hand down his face and turned his head to the lav, chewing at his lip. “I uh, I think I’ll have a shower and...see...maybe I’ll, yeah.” He trailed off aimlessly, shaking his head. 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John. It was slow, reassuring and full of everything Sherlock could think to pour into it. He slowly drew it to a close, resting his forehead against John’s. His voice was soft, “Do you want a hand there? You’ve been getting around pretty well without me, but I’m here if you need me. If you want me to bugger right off, I’ll be out on the sofa. Want me to at least lay some clothes out on the bed for you?”

John tipped his face down, leaning hard against Sherlock’s shoulder, his mind shutting down on him with all the offered options. He ran a hand over the back of his neck and breathed slowly, trying to get himself calm again, worked up and unsure exactly why. He ran his tongue along his teeth and groaned as he leaned back. “Clothes...yeah clothes would help.” 

He got himself up off the bed in the next moments and moved towards the lav, flicking on the light out of habit. He was careful as he felt his way to the shower and opened the taps, sinking down to the side of the tub as he waited for it to warm, one hand tight around his stomach. 

Sherlock was fretful but moved easily around. He pulled out actual clothes for John. A pair of jeans that were well worn, new to Sherlock, but obviously John’s favorite from the wear patterns. He pulled out a tee and one of John’s jumpers he’d bitched most about, only because the damn thing had made him want to wrap up around John and bury his face against it. Socks and pants were laid next to the other clothes. Sherlock glanced over and through John’s drawers, rifling through them. He nodded and set to work.

Sherlock moved clothes here and there, slowly but surely moving things around. Soon Sherlock had things settled where John would be able to reach in and know what color he was grabbing. He stared curiously at the pair of red pants in his hand. Well then, that he would have to see.

John got himself into the shower and leaned into the spray face-first, glad to have a proper wash. His arms were still sore where he’d had IV lines thread and he still ached from the damage to his foot. The water helped soothe that away with the steaming heat. He moved his fingers carefully, seeking out soap after a few moments. He held the bar in his hand and reached for the cloth, fumbling, losing hold of the bar and cringing as the slippery thing took down the bottles on the edge of the tub. 

He stood there, still and immobile as the sound echoed around him, cloth in hand, bottles sliding to bump against his toes. His throat closed up on him and he tipped his face to the cooler tile beside him, trying to breathe through it, utterly humiliated. 

He gathered himself and crouched, the position pulling too hard on his lower leg. He swiveled abruptly to take the pressure off and ended up sitting on the shower floor, bottles under and around him. He shook his head and leaned hard against the side of the tub, thumb and pointer pressed hard to his eyes to keep himself from dissolving into frustrated tears. 

Sherlock heard the bottles, heard John sit on the shower floor. He listened carefully to the way the water fell. Still sitting up then. He was quiet a moment longer before calling out, “John, making a cuppa, need anything before I do?” John could ask for help without seeming like he was. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to fix him, to make everything better. It was frustrating for him, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for John.

John cleared his throat and told Sherlock he was fine. He remained as he was long enough for Sherlock to have left the room before feeling out the situation around him. He slowly got the bottles put away and stacked back on the edge of the tub before finding the bar of soap. He just worked up a lather and used his hands, forgoing the cloth. 

Sherlock kept both soap and shampoo in the shower and it took John a few enraging moments to work out which was which, wasting dabs of conditioner and body soap alike, coming on the shampoo last. He worked it into his hair, deciding he could use a bit of a trim soon, his scalp still incredibly tender in the places where they’d worked on him. 

He wrapped his arms around his knees and let the fall of the water slowly rinse his head clean, already a bit winded. His conversation with Sherlock played out in his head and he took a deep breath, tipping his head down to the floor, water rushing over his ears. He couldn’t do this. It wasn’t productive to dwell before seeing the neurologist, getting a second opinion, but the idea of life like this without his sight stole his breath away and he had to shove that potential reality to the side, honestly not sure if he’d be able to keep going or not. 

A few minutes later, he managed to stand up, ensuring everything was back in its place, and killed the taps. He was standing in front of the bed shortly after, a towel wrapped around his hips as he felt along the clothing laid out for him. 

Sherlock made short work of cleaning up the flat, moving his shirt to the laundry. He’d picked his suit off the bedroom floor. He came back through with another of his suits, laying it out on the bed. A kiss was laid to John’s temple and soon the taps could be heard running again.

Sherlock flew through his shower. He made short work of getting clean. He killed the taps and moved back into the bedroom as he toweled off.

John had managed to dress and make his way out to the sitting room as Sherlock bathed. He cracked into the side of a chair Sherlock had shifted. Clearly he’d been tidying up while John wallowed in the shower. He was taking his time in his rare moment of privacy, working through the room and feeling it out, making a map of its tactile features to place with the visual he already had. His fingers trailed along edges until he hit the window, pausing with his hand on the smooth glass. It was obviously very cold outside, no bright light filtering in. 

He breathed the odd mix of drafty cold and fireplace warm as he stood there, trying to focus on what he could experience instead of what he could not. He knew he was facing Speedy’s, a pang in his chest as he thought on all the little details of their home. 

Sherlock dressed with efficiency, partially shut down to block out the pain that was watching John be so bloody miserable. Not that he blamed the man. He’d have been right out of his head for something like that.

Sherlock was quiet as he walked back into the sitting room. He scooped up his violin and began plucking at it absentmindedly. He moved close to the fire and hummed along with the small tune he was plucking.

John followed the sound of Sherlock’s violin, hands out in front of him, not yet having mapped that side of the room. He caught hold of Sherlock’s waist and touched him carefully to orient himself, slowly wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s hips and resting his cheek between his shoulderblades. His eyes fell closed and he focused in his breathing, trying not to give over to the threat of despair. Already he wanted to go crawl back into bed and hide from it all, though he steadily refused to do so. 

Sherlock smiled, wishing desperately that John could see it. He’d hid the same indulgent smile from the man so many times over the years. He scowled at himself for all his useless wishing. His voice was soft when he finally spoke, gentle and open, “I love you. You are the strongest man I know.”

John pulled in a slow, deep breath, savoring the way Sherlock’s voice reverberated through his chest, feeling him talk and hearing the words at the same time. John nearly contested that such a title should got to the unwavering Greg Lestrade, but he let it go. 

Finally he cleared his throat and carefully stepped back, one hand behind him in an effort to get his bearings. He looked down at the floor, not sure what to do with his eyes, not at all keen to stare in Sherlock’s general direction without focus. He did not want to look like he could not see, not to Sherlock, anyhow. 

“I should make that call. Might be able to get in this week to see him. And a follow up with the current neurologist. Mark seemed...I don’t know, hesitant for me to talk with him again.”

Sherlock made a noise of assent. He hauled out his mobile, “Have the number? Or do I need to look it up? The neuro who had you in the hospital was an arse.” Sherlock huffed in annoyance. He turned to John, brushing his lips across John’s forehead. “I love you.”

“I wasn’t keen on him either. It’s Murray, I don’t have his number, J.S. Murray. He was in London last I looked.” John held Sherlock’s mobile in his hands and brushed his thumbs over the keys. 

“Can you...can you look it up for me? Or I could just try an operator or-” he shook his head at his idiotic suggestion and sighed, going quiet as he stood there awkwardly. 

Sherlock was already holding up the tablet, “My brother knew he pissed you off.” He used the tablet to find the number. “Still in London. This tablet isn’t out on the market for another three months.” He plucked the mobile from John’s hand and entered the number. “It’s ready to call when you are.”

John held the phone and listened to Sherlock, his temper rising. “Put it in box and send it back to him. Christ. Trinkets, what the fuck good is a tablet to me?” He set his jaw and pressed the button, holding the phone to his ear. 

It took a few minutes of schmoozing the nursing staff and the receptionists, but soon enough Murray's voice came over the line and John smiled, addressing his old friend. It took the better part of fifteen minutes to fill him in from the initial blast injury to his current situation, wishing he could have left out the theatrics during his hospital stay but knowing they were critical to the picture. 

When John finally hung up, he looked in the direction Sherlock had been and set the mobile on the side of his chair. “Tomorrow at ten,” he said calmly, not liking the tone in Murray's voice. “Having the records sent over now.”

Sherlock moved to John again and tugged on him lightly, “Join me on the sofa?” He wrapped John up in his arms and watched him carefully. “I’ll call and make sure there’s a cab waiting on us. Won’t risk being late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. One of us had a death in the family (which included an 1,800 mile round trip for the funeral... with a toddler) and we both have some sort of plague. We're holed up with cold medicine, trying to get stuff up. Speaking of... if you see any glaring errors please give a yell. Cold medicine isn't exactly helpful when it comes to editing.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is an arse, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit shorter than normal.

There was a knock at the door and Sherlock moved to answer it. 

Greg stood on the other side of the door looking worried, “Sherlock, thank god. There’s an order out for you to be brought in.” Sherlock looked at Greg like he was insane. “Section paperwork, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock swore. “Mycroft said… But, he said.” Greg shook his head. “They’re trying to reverse it, but you two need to come with me now. Just come stay at the house the rest of the day. Please. I don’t want them getting hold of you. If you’re here when they come, they’ll take you in and it will take days to get you back out. If they can’t find you before the paperwork is reversed, you’ll be fine.”

John was still in his chair when Sherlock had gone downstairs to the door. He stood and hovered where he knew he could sit back down without looking like a fool with his efforts, noting Greg’s voice though the words were lost. He remained where he was, waiting for Sherlock to come back for him. 

Sherlock scrubbed a hand through his hair, “Come on, let’s gather John. He’s going to be livid.” Sherlock darted back up the stairs, Greg on his heels. Sherlock spoke softly, tremor in his voice belying how worried he was, “We’ve got to go to Greg’s. He’s here to pick us up. Mycroft is working on the paperwork but they’re on their way to haul me in. Section paperwork is still floating out there.”

Greg spoke gently, “Should be cleared up by end of business today, but you know, if they get him it will take days. If we avoid them, then it just falls through.”

John listened to them, paying close attention to the tone of Sherlock’s voice. His jaw set and twitched, through he remained quiet. He gave a tight nod and rest his hand against his chair. “I’m...just need to gather our medication, yeah? Greg...thanks for your help, again. Christ we’d be lost without you.” John’s palms were sweating, feeling useless, ready to find Mycroft and take him apart. 

Sherlock grabbed John’s duffle from the floor, “I’ve got it, give me a moment.” He gathered them both a change of clothes and pyjama bottoms just in case. He scooped up the medications they were both on and added them to the bag. Sherlock was moving quickly, efficiently. The bell rang downstairs and Sherlock swore colorfully. He moved, peering down at the door. “It’s them… Going out the back, down the fire escape. Greg, have you got John? I’ll meet you at your house. John?”

John was caught in his own personal hell. He could not stay with Sherlock, could not help him much at all. He had no idea where Greg was standing as he responded to Sherlock, “Go!” He moved around his chair and made it to the far wall, wrapping his hand around the railing and moving down the stairs as carefully as he could, leaving Greg behind, his heart thundering in his chest. He nearly tripped on the lower landing as he stumbled to the door and flung it open. 

“Terribly sorry, we’re not interested in whatever you’re selling,” he said as he looked at the ground, wanting to distract them, hoping they were not clever enough to have the back covered as well. 

Greg followed John down the stairs as Sherlock swiped his phone off the chair and slipped out the back. He was quiet, stealthy, exceedingly relieved they didn’t have the back covered. Sherlock called Molly as he hauled himself down the fire escape and down the alley, “Molls, yeah, they’re here. I’m on my way, yeah, yeah down the alley. Right. See you then.” He ended the call and tore off, moving up and over a building with surprising speed as he moved toward another street to catch a cab.

Greg smiled to the man who stood there, “Hey Sanders. He’s not here. I thought maybe he’d come willingly with me. John said he slipped out sometime last night. Probably holed up somewhere trying to let this pass. Can’t blame him, yeah?” 

Sanders nodded, “Well, we’ll head to his brother’s then. Heard they’re trying to reverse the paperwork… He’s still on our list though. Sorry for the disturbance.” 

Greg nodded. “John, let’s head to my house for a bit, yeah? Get some lunch on the way maybe? Know it’s been a pain with him sneaking out.” He spoke as Sanders and his partner got back in the vehicle they’d come in. “Right, okay, they’re gone. Sherlock will likely beat us there. They’ll follow us a bit, make sure we’re not picking him up.”

John reached out and wrapped a hand around Greg’s elbow, his heart slamming against his ribs. He knew this would be alright, it had to be, but the entire thing was wildly upsetting without his sight. He eased into the car, hands shaking, wishing Sherlock was with them. He didn’t like to be transported in a vehicle without the man. It historically had not gone well for John.

“We should just go to Mycroft’s house so I can put that fucking idiot on the floor. When does sodding paperwork hold up Mycroft? He’s full of it, Greg. I don’t think he’s actually trying to reverse anything. You should have heard him the other night…” John trailed off and turned to face Greg, looking away sharply as he remembered himself. “Why did you never tell me about him trying to kill you?”

Greg sighed as he started the car and headed toward his house via Angelo’s. “Because it wasn’t me he was trying to kill. Sherlock hasn’t been violent in a long time. He destroyed my guest room this last time, but didn’t come after me or Molly and he had opportunity to do both.”

John nodded at that and pulled his hands in closer to himself. “That’s what I thought. Now that Sherlock and I have both...god, I’m sorry, Greg. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t going to ever shoot you, even when I didn’t know it was you. I can’t imagine what that...I’m sorry. Thank you for still being here.” 

He went quiet, a constant pull of deep seated concern for Sherlock as they drove. “He’s off, Greg. Meds and...stress...he’d not been himself. This lot are not clever enough to pin him, surely.” He was mostly trying to assure himself. Sherlock was in no shape to be back on the lam. 

Greg smiled to himself, “He’s still Sherlock. I will bet he’s already in a cab headed to my house. We’re stopping by Angelo’s. Just pick up food, make them bored. They won’t look too hard. Mycroft really is trying to reverse the paperwork. I’ve raised hell with him… Look, I know you didn’t and weren’t. You had no idea what was going on. Just like when Sherlock came at me. He truly believed I was his dealer.”

Greg was quiet for a while. “Mycroft tell you all of the story? Why he’s angry with Sherlock about me?”

John shook his head. “He was only trying to break Sherlock apart and take shots at me. There was no effort to be clear, no point other than to wound, which he did, spectacularly. Talked about the boy Sherlock stole away from him. Asked Sherlock how long it would be before he killed me as well, basically.” John was livid as he spoke, a cold, betrayed calm to his voice. “I used to meet that fucking idiot at Sherlock’s-” he huffed an angry laugh and shook his head, turning to the window simply to hide his face. 

Greg hummed softly. “Before the politics, before the Met, there were two idiotic young men. Got into a bit of trouble together… I didn’t even recognize Sherlock as the annoying little twit of a brother until I got Mycroft’s name from him when I scooped him out of a gutter. Hadn’t seen him in years at that point. I bailed on our… whatever it was, when Mycroft started climbing the ladder. Didn’t have time for me, started hiding our outings… couldn’t be seen with me like that. Too much at stake.” He cleared his throat. “So, there’s a bit of bad blood there. Sherlock was driving when Trevor was killed, tried to kill me, even though he didn’t think I was, well, me.”

“You and _Mycroft_. Jesus, Greg.” John shook his head and pressed a shaking palm to his eyes. “If you need abuse so terribly, I’ve a few numbers for you. Why the hell are you still here?” He couldn’t make any sense of any of this. Everything he knew of his former life was just the superficial end of a much deeper story and he honestly felt the pawn of it all. Greg was, thus far, the only man who hadn’t played him. 

“I- fuck. I’m sorry I’m on the list. Christ, Greg.”

Greg laughed suddenly, “Oi, look. I’m a copper. Shit happens. Mycroft and I were young and stupid. Junkies trying to stab me is a danger of the job. People snapping is part of it too. I know the dangers. Yeah, you and Sherlock are friends. Damned good ones. I won’t lie and say it’s not hard. It is. But you’re _good_ men. Both of you. Neither of you were out to hurt _me_. Mycroft didn’t mean to hurt me. He was going after what he wanted in life. Can’t fault him for that. But I have Molls, and let me tell you. My life is bloody brilliant. I have a good job, good friends, even if they are a bit nutty from time to time, and contact with someone who’s save my job a couple times when I might’ve gone about doing things in an unorthodox manner to catch a murderer. I’m a fucking lucky bloke.”

He drove on to Angelo’s, pulling up outside and flashing his lights on the car for a moment. Angelo came out bearing a bag of food Molly had called in. Greg popped the locks and Angelo set it in the back. “John! Glad to see you back. You tell Sherlock to bring you by, proper date, yeah?” 

John smiled honestly at the sound of Angelo’s voice. He’d not seen him again since Sherlock’s funeral. He promised that he would have Sherlock bring him round sometime, keeping his face in a way that would hopefully hide his blindness. The car swiftly began to smell of garlic and pasta, turning John’s stomach. When the doors closed again, he asked swiftly, “Are they still with us?” He could hardly stand any of this, just wanting to go home. 

Greg pulled off, headed toward his house, “No, be there in just a few minutes. They kept on going when we stopped for food.” He took the turns easily for food and John’s sake.

Sherlock bolted out of the cab and into the house. Molly looked up in surprise. “Beat them here Sherlock. Greg’s bringing Angelo’s.” He smiled and nodded, going to settle himself in the sitting room.

John was having to work exceedingly hard to keep himself calm. His fingers blanched around the door handle and he tried to focus on what direction they were going, only to find that simple act too close to times when he’d been in a less hospitable vehicle. 

He was about to ask Greg to drop the windows despite the cold, the twist of food around his already unsteady gut was making him feel terrible. “Greg,” he whispered after a moment, “could you just… talk to me a bit?” 

“Molly’s getting a pay raise. Talking about taking that step now. Maybe. We’re on the fence. She’s so bloody logical sometimes it’s like talking to Sherlock… which can be a bit off putting.” He laughed softly at that. “Think he rubbed off on her. Those two… something crazy happened while he was gone.”

If that wasn’t the understatement of the year. He kept one hand pressed over his eyes, elbow resting on the sill, the other hand wrapped tight around the door. “‘M happy for you both, think it’s...think it’s great. Good together.” 

He wondered if Sherlock had made it there yet, worried and unsettled, ready to crawl out of his skin. “Think we can go home tonight?” All he wanted on earth at the moment was his own bed and shelter from being so bloody exposed. 

Greg pulled up outside. “He’s here I’ll wager. Look, I know this is rough. I think you’ll be able to go home in a couple hours. Okay?” He slid out of the car and grabbed the food. 

Molly came out and opened John’s door. “Hey… Sherlock’s inside. Want my arm?”

He really didn’t, but there wasn’t much for it. John reached out blindly and found her arm, edging up close to falling apart, far too much activity for him so soon after the relative confinement of a hospital bed. He was careful not to squeeze her, taking deep, greedy breaths at the cold air. The shift in temperature let him know he’d been sweating, his brow cooling much faster than the rest of his face. 

“Thanks,” he said quietly, forcing his legs to move, his gait stiff and clumsy as he followed along with her. “He’s okay?”

“He’s fine, terrorizing Toby for fun. Toby likes it though, he crawls up and flops on him purring.” Molly was gentle, she guided him in and sat him next to Sherlock on the sofa who drawled, “You two are slow. Oh, Angelo’s that’s what took you so long.” His arm went around John gently.

Molly and Greg shook their heads at each other and disappeared into the kitchen. Toby came back up and stretched out along Sherlock’s lap, purring up a storm. “Damn cat.”

John kept himself held stiff and quiet, listening to the room, waiting to sink down against Sherlock until he was sure Greg and Molly were no longer there. He remained quiet, ignoring the cat, keeping his eyes closed in the unfamiliar space of Greg’s home. 

Sherlock was quiet as he spoke, “Mycroft called. The lawyer will be waiting when we get back. The paperwork should push through in another hour. You just have to sign, even a scribble, on a line that says you take care of me over. In six months or so you can apply for me to be released from the conservatorship. Ah, this means you get control of the trust fund…”

John nodded and held quiet for another moment. “Does that mean we can go home? I just want to go home. You can...whatever, I don’t care about the money. I just want to go home.” He was resisting the urge to bury himself against Sherlock, who seemed calm and steady somehow. John did not want to interrupt his mood with his own panic. He licked his lip and exhaled, leaning away from Sherlock somewhat, hoping the distance may force him to calm down a bit. 

Sherlock reached out and drew John to him, nuzzling down on the top of his head, “Let’s go home. Paperwork should be safe enough. They won’t come back looking at the flat yet.” Sherlock called out, “Greg, Molly, leaving. Molly has the details. Thank you!” He drew John to his feet and gently guided him down to the road. He flagged down a cab and settled them both inside. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s temple.

John was wrestling with his stomach at this point, a sound of distress on his lips in the strange cab, so suddenly shifted about in the darkness. He pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck and tried to hold on to the way the man smelled, deciding then and there that he was never leaving the flat again. 

The ride was blissfully short and he was dizzy and pale by the time they arrived, wanting something for pain and to sleep forever, only the danger had yet to pass and there would be a lawyer to handle. 

Sherlock was exceedingly tender with John and got him upstairs. He ignored the two lawyers Mycroft had sent. Mrs. Hudson had let them in. Sherlock settled John in the bedroom, propped up against the headboard. “Right, you can just sign in here. When they leave you can get comfortable, yeah?”

John nodded at him and eased himself up a bit, sitting and waiting for Sherlock to come back with the men, ready to sign and have done with it all. The very notion of all of this making him crazy. 

He kept his ears sharp for the men and worried over Sherlock, not at all trusting men employed by Mycroft not to simply haul him off. 

Sherlock nodded to the men, “Rodgers, Wattsworth. Let him sign and leave. Tell Mycroft I’ll see him at Christmas if he fucks off completely and leaves us alone.” Rodgers smirked just a bit as they moved into the bedroom. Sherlock was careful with John, handing him a pen and putting the point to where he needed to sign. 

It didn’t take long and Sherlock was showing them out. He returned and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Are you alright,” John asked as he reached for Sherlock, following the dip at the edge of the bed, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s chest and moving up behind him, nuzzling the side of his neck, “I know...I know the threat must be...I know it’s scary. Are you okay?” 

Sherlock leaned lightly against John, “The threat is over. It’s over. Mycroft cannot get to me now.” Sherlock actually huffed out a laugh, “You really do have control of me now.”

John eased back and tried to get a handle on Sherlock’s mood, the man seemed to have withdrawn himself somewhat. “No I don’t. I’ve just lent you my signature. I’d never use this to control you or your money. I just want to be home. I just want to keep you safe.” His shoulders were shaking hard and John moved back against the headboard, dragging the blanket over himself without heed to his state of dress. 

“I just want to keep you safe.” 

Sherlock chuckled softly, “Was meant a joke and a reference to your bossy bedroom antics I enjoy. I’m okay John. I am okay. I am only worried about you. You’ve been dragged through the wringer for me.” He followed John, tucking up against him. “I love you.”

John pressed hard against Sherlock, sagging down now that he knew he was alright. “I’m sorry. Just on edge. I’m going to kill your brother when I get the next chance.” He wrapped his fingers in Sherlock’s shirt and held tight, quiet for a short while. 

“I can’t see. I can’t see, and it makes it hard to remember, and it makes it scary to move, and I’m so utterly useless that I can’t even protect you from such a minor threat.” He shook his head as his ears started to ring, breathing a bit harder through his parted lips. 

Sherlock wrapped up around John, “Slow breaths, John. We’re going to be okay. You’re going to go to that brilliant friend of yours. You have protected me just fine. John you just took over the paperwork. Everything is going to be fine.”

He took a few deep breaths himself. “I love you, you love me. We’re okay.”

John knew he was setting Sherlock off. He bit his lip and nodded, relaxing his grip on the man’s chest, forcing himself to slow down. He tucked an arm between them, resting his fingertips on his lips, his eyes closed in an effort to settle himself. He was quiet for a long time, nearly falling asleep, any suggestion of sound from the lower levels of the flat startling him back awake. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t intend...didn’t...this isn’t what I’m trying to be. I’m- I’m working on it.”

Sherlock had nearly dozed off himself, “John, You’ve been through hell. You’re recovering. You’re doing very, very well. I know that I get flighty and off but you are doing exceedingly well. I am trying to be settled and calm myself. We don’t always succeed but we’re getting there.”

John just went quiet again, regretting speaking. He pulled the blankets over his shoulder and pressed his knuckles to his lips, trying to push himself back down into sleep. His jeans were heavy and the jumper welcome, at least. He shifted down and put his focus to breathing, disquieted and unnerved. 

Sherlock sighed softly, “I’m sorry. I- I never know what to say. I’m here. I will be here. No matter what.” He went silent and moved. He stepped into the living room and rummaged around. He came back a few minutes later with a bottle of water and two of John’s pills. “Hey, pills. Let’s get you dosed before you get into pain again, okay?”

John came up enough to slid his hands along Sherlock’s, taking the water and the pills, swallowing them down before settling back into the bed. He toed off his socks and rolled to his side, tucking his fingers to his lips and slowly falling back asleep.

Sherlock breathed a small sigh out. He went back to the kitchen. John still hadn’t eaten. Sherlock made himself a sandwich, eating standing at the counter. He brushed the crumbs into the bin. Sherlock made himself drink a small glass of juice and a bottle of water. He retrieved a book from the shelf. 

Sherlock stripped out of his suit and pulled on pyjama bottoms before easing into bed. He read for a while until he the stress of the day overwhelmed him and he fell asleep, book on his chest.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get some bad news - This is a fairly rough chapter and it's going to get worse for a bit.

John slept through the remainder of the day, and well into the small hours of the morning before swimming up, grimacing at how heavy his clothes were. He took a moment to let the panic wash over him before remembering himself and gently calling out in question for Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s book clattered to the floor as he sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. He reached out and clicked on the lamp, “Right here… Fell asleep reading, sorry. What can I do for you?”

John’s heart sank, “Did you just turn on the lamp?” He asked quietly, pushing himself to sit up, reaching out and wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock reached out and wrapped John up. “Yeah… can you not tell?” Sherlock’s voice wavered a bit at the thought. John going backwards was something he didn’t want. John had been through enough.

John was running through his medical mind, trying to put it together as he shook his head. He turned to face the direction of the lamp, pressing a hand over his eyes before pulling it away, his heart racing with the lack of visible change. He’d been fussing about the limited vision he had, and now he was stuck in the dark. 

He sank back down against Sherlock, struggling not to cry. “I just wanted something for my head,” he whispered, pulling in a sharp, deep breath as he shook his head. 

Sherlock held John to him gently. “We’ll figure it out. Let me go get your medicine. I- stupid, I left it in the sitting room. I’m sorry. Let me go get it.” He gently laid John back against his pillows. He moved to the sitting room quickly, grabbing up the bottles before returning to John’s side.

He pressed two pills into John’s hand, then handed over the bottle of water. “It’s open.”

John sat up and took the pills with a shaking hand, swallowing them down and finishing off the water. He sat there for a moment before pushing himself to his feet, stripping out of his jeans and sweater, leaving himself in his undershirt. He eased back into the bed and dropped an arm over his eyes, making it easier to pretend nothing had changed. 

Sherlock scooted to John, laying down beside him. His arm went around his waist. Sherlock didn’t speak, just held John. He had no idea what to say or do. There was no magic wand. No magic words.

John managed to fall back asleep, floating on his medication, killing away the hours in slumber until Sherlock’s mobile beeped at them that it was nearly nine in the morning. John groaned as he came up, nothing but a solid wall of darkness when he opened his eyes. He stayed there, staring up at the ceiling, one hand splayed on his stomach. He didn’t feel anything at all. In fact, he could simply lay there until his body decided to stop, and that would be just fine, too. 

Sherlock dragged himself from the bed. He made short work of dressing again in his suit. He pulled clothes out for John without being asked, picking him comfortable but nice looking jeans and a button up. He paused over the red pants and smiled. He’d ask later. He tossed socks and pants there too. “Clothes on the bed. Going to put on coffee.”

He kissed John’s forehead before setting off to make coffee and fix a bit of toast. John had to eat something today.

John dressed slowly, going through the motions though they seemed a bit more difficult in the complete darkness. Logically he knew there was no difference, he’d not been able to see much before. Though he had made out the halo of Sherlock’s curls...seen the movement of his body. The thought stilled him as loss so sharp it tore the breath from his lungs lanced through his chest. 

He remained on the edge of the bed, imobile, completely unable to make himself move. 

Sherlock moved back into the bedroom. “Coffee and toast. You have to eat, John. Something, anything. Please.” He stepped in front of him and took his hand. “I love you. We’ll be at the doctor’s soon.”

John let Sherlock pull him up and he followed him with much greater hesitation out into the sitting room, feeling like he needed to learn it all over. All his work was lost to him in that moment and he set his jaw, touching the back of the chair before sinking down into it. 

He managed to crash his fingertips into the jam on his toast by way of finding the bread, simply feeling out the edges with sticky hands, eating without any attention to it. He did not want to unsettle Sherlock any more than he already had the night last. 

The coffee John downed too swiftly, his tongue protesting, rough and mildly scorched. He hardly noticed. There was nothing he could think of that would send him in reverse that would end well. He did not want to go see Murray, did not want to hear that it was permanent, that he’d lost the little progress he made, and this was life for as long as he could stand to live it. 

Sherlock ate and downed his coffee nervously. He looked at the clock, “Cab will be here in a few minutes. Called, wanted to make sure we could get there on time.” He gathered dishes and tossed them in the sink,fretful but had controlled.

“I love you.”

John moved to the sink and managed to get his hands washed before moving back to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the man and breathing in slowly, just for a moment, giving himself time to settle. He nodded and stepped back, one hand wrapped tight in the material of Sherlock’s sleeve. 

“I love you too.”

Sherlock guided him downstairs, grabbing their coats on the way. Before they stepped out he helped John into his and then swung his own on. He murmured as they slipped out and into the cold air. He opened the cab and settled both of them inside. Sherlock put his arm protectively around John’s shoulders.

John leaned hard against Sherlock and turned his face to him, still unnerved by riding in cars. He let his mind wander, trailing over what Murray might say, going over what he knew of the case… his case. He could… get a dog, perhaps. Learn some sort of skill that one could do in total darkness. Learn to care for himself and prepare food for himself and…

He swore and grit his teeth. He was too fucking old to be learning it all again, too fucking rattled to remember where the hell he was without his sight. John had endured a great many things in his years, but this… this was too much. 

It was no good dwelling on it, however. He took a deep, steadying breath and made himself calm down. He would wait until Murray confirmed it before trying to figure out Plan B. 

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. “I have you love.” He wrapped John close to him. He was terrified for John. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They’d been through too much. What else was going to be stolen from them?

Sherlock’s thoughts were dark as they made their way to the office. Murray had better damn well fix John. That wasn’t fair, but it was how he felt. He nuzzled the top of John’s head tenderly.

John settled down into a chair when a familiar voice echoed through the room. Murray was a large man back when John knew him from his early trauma rotations, he no doubt had remained so. A massive hand wrapped around his and he was pulled up to his feet and into a tight embrace in the next moment. 

“John. Good god, it’s been too long. Come on then, is this your man? Dog, you.” Murray was a few inches taller than Sherlock with nearly scruffy blond hair and bright blue eyes, his hands clean and neat though broad and rough. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand before he had a chance to fold them behind his back, turning his attention back to John. 

“Bit of trouble, John. Come on, let’s go into my office so I can have a look at you. Been over your records with your old Neuro. Billings is no walk in the park, esh.” 

John leaned back towards Sherlock as he smiled in Murray’s direction, and the larger man helped steer him over, handing John back to Sherlock and leading the pair to his private office in the back, offering them both a seat as he moved behind his desk, tapping to John’s file. “He is one hell of a surgeon though, John. I know you can’t see, but Christ the state of your egg before he put it back together… incredible work.” 

Sherlock actually let out a small growl of frustration, tense and worried as he settled John in a chair. He stood just behind and to the side of John’s chair, folding his hands behind his back, chin tilted. His gaze was cold, eyes narrowed as he took in Murray. The side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched as he bit down hard on the want to deduce the man within an inch of every dark desire he’d ever harbored.

Murray looked up from the files on his desk and took in Sherlock’s posture before looking down at John, who was pale and obviously distressed. Murray cleared his throat and leaned back, dropping his voice down to a more gentle register, addressing them again. “Forgive me, John. It’s been too many years and this is not the time. Never been known for my tact.” He picked up John’s last scan and tucked it into the lightbox behind him, preferring the older display method for showing patients what he was talking about. 

He nodded to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, if you’d like a look at these with me, I’ll be happy to point out specifics. As it is, John, I’ll just explain.” He moved around to the front of his desk and leaned his hip against it, “Mind if I get a look at you before we begin?” 

John gave him a tight nod and held still, only flinching slightly as Murray touched him, following the myriad of commands from raising his hands and smiling, to strength tests and balance. Murray flicked a light across John’s eyes, frowning as he watched the reaction, and finally stepped back. “You are all over the place, John. Much improved in strength and balance, though you’re a bit droopy on your left and your reactions are sluggish, as are your pupils. Been eating? How’s the vertigo?” 

John just shook his head and gripped his knee tight, finally speaking. “Last night I- I’d been able to see light, make out hazy shapes especially when backlit. Last night I woke up and it’s… Sherlock turned on a light, it did nothing. It’s been nothing but a solid wall of black all day.” 

Murray nodded and put a hand over John’s, leaning in slightly, “Okay, Watson, let’s see what we can do, yeah? You’ve pulled out of hell before.” He cleared his throat and moved back around to his chair, extending a hand for Sherlock to take a seat as well. 

Sherlock grudgingly acquiesced to the unspoken request and marginally relaxed. He cleared his throat lightly, deep baritone less annoyed, more worried. “I’ve a working knowledge of the brain. I’ll ask for clarification if I need it.” He paused for a moment and looked at John, a brief smile touching his face before adding. “I’m far luckier than John by the way.” He nodded at that and fell quiet again.

Murray nodded quietly at that, his focus mostly on John, though he tried to look at Sherlock frequently as well. “You had several bleeds, John, of varying severity. A grade four at one point, not quite in the visual cortex but close. It’s a bit puzzling, to be honest. Most of your severe damage was to your language centers, and what a _fascinating_ response that was. Anyhow, your last scan showed a near complete resolution of all the bleeds.” 

He paused and pulled out another scan, a simple printout this time. He tapped an area of it and pointed over his shoulder, “So I went back over the scans before you lost your sight, as did Billings, and I could find nothing of remarkable significance. Not until I went back over your labs did it become clear at all, and now, I think I’ve pegged it down.” He stood up and touched the scan in the lightbox. “There is, I believe, a very narrow lining of calcification between the lining of the nerves and the blood supply. It’s incredibly minor, but you’ve elevations in the labs, and there is a thickening here that can be observed.” 

He moved to sit back down in his chair, looking at Sherlock first, giving him a moment before he gentled his voice again, addressing John. “It’s a rare reaction, John. Not a lot of literature out on it, I’m afraid. Outcomes are all over the place. There are several methods which we can try to address this, but each has their own risks. And of course, the potential remains that there is no calcification, which can only be confirmed on the scale we are talking about with internal visualization, would have to run a catheter through it. That’s an absurd risk. If you want it done, you’ll have to find someone braver than me.” 

Sherlock looked to John before looking back to Murray. He opened his mouth to speak but then shook his head. He’d not snap now, not demand things. This was John’s life, John’s questions to ask. He merely stretched a hand out and folded his hand over John’s.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, his mind running wild, trying to place where Murray was going. There was _no better_ than him in London, and he was ranking in Europe near the top five, ten to be sure. He shook his head and began asking for levels, listening to the data Murray had used in his findings, paired with what Murray was seeing on the scans. 

“Huh,” he said after a few moments, tapping his lip when Murray went quiet again. “That’s one hell of a longshot. Never would have thought of that.” 

Murray shook his head and laughed gently, “John, you’re a trauma doc, if you ran with us brain guys, you would have. Now, the question remains. How do you want to proceed? The most aggressive option here is surgery. We can go in with the catheter with the intent to clear the blockage. I’m sure I don’t need to clarify the absurdly high risk of embolism with calcification and narrow cranial passages.” He cleared his throat as John shook his head. “We can go as gentle as trying medication, see if it clears up. Will take much longer, may not work, drugs are terrible for your liver so you’ll have to come in for weekly labs. We can try to break it down with ultrasound, again the risk, and that’s not my favored options when it comes to brains.” 

John was quiet as he took it all in, not at all keen to be back in hospital. “Murray,” he asked quietly, his jaw set and braced, “what odds are we talking, here?” 

Murray leaned back and looked over to Sherlock before looking back at John, folding his massive hands over the desk. “Ranges from 12 to 37% John, I wish I could tell you better.” 

John swore and turned his face away for a moment, running his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles in a nervous bid to calm himself. 

Rage flashed over Sherlock’s face and for a terrifying moment he was in South America and the bullet was headed toward him. A low snarl ripped its way from him. A slender hand came down on the desk, fingers splayed as it slammed down “That’s not good enough.”

Sherlock’s voice had fallen low, ice dripping along it. He was frighteningly in control and that scared him worse than if he’d just snapped. Sherlock was going to find people and start shredding them over this. Starting with Mycroft.

His fingers on the other hand were tender, gentle on John’s hand as he sought to soothe even as the rest of him went to war.

Murray did not flinch. He watched Sherlock carefully, sliding back into his military days with ease, eyes seeking out any place Sherlock could be harboring a weapon as he suddenly displayed himself as a seasoned, dangerous man. He looked between the two, the dynamic shifting. Mark had filled him in a bit and vouched for Sherlock, warned that the man was hostile. He’d not mentioned anything of the man being a killer. 

“You and I are in complete agreement there, Mr. Holmes. Though I will say that the numbers fare better than zero. I believe that the sudden appearance of sensitivity to light following a harsh impact followed by a sudden loss supports my theory.” 

He looked back to John and gave him a moment. “If it was me, John, I’d try. You’ve got someone strong at your side, not in that horrid bedsit any longer, yeah? I’d try. I understand if you’d rather not.”

Sherlock’s head tilted as he took in Murray again, eyes wandering over him. He smiled slowly, dangerous, almost predatory before dropping it and turning to John, voice at complete odds, gentle, tender. “I’ll be by your side, whatever you decide. If it comes to it, you’re naming the dog Gladstone though.”

Murray narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and leaned back in his chair completely, his focus intentionally calculating, finally arching a brow and shrugging off Sherlock’s posturing. 

“What medication are you talking about? Just diuretics or hormones? Or did you want to try IV? Fuck. Murray what if we just…” John shook his head and leaned forward, lacing his fingers together between his knees as he tried to think. 

Murray went right back to it with John, mostly ignoring Sherlock now. “Well, that’s the spectrum. IV bisphosphonates are your best choice, but that could be paired with hormone as well. Can try a cocktail but only with constant labs, I don’t want to stop your heart. Defeats the purpose.” 

John huffed and empty laugh and dragged a hand over his face. “I’m not going back to hospital for a long time, Murray. Can you send someone in to do it, or am I going to have to be admitted?” 

Murray leaned forward and watched John closely, looking over to Sherlock again, addressing John while keeping his eyes on the posturing man. “Well, John, that all really depends on your setup at home.”

“Equipment is not a problem. Anything he needs.” He looked up at Murray, convinced. finally, that he was an ally and dropped everything except the concern.

Murray nodded and addressed Sherlock then, “I hazard you could draw them, actually. Bit of history and all that, I know John here had a hell of a go with strangers when he got home the first time, all those years ago. Hasn’t shifted, has it John?” 

John laughed and shook his head, remembering their little stint together when John was his patient. “No sir, it has not.” 

They spent the next half hour discussing in-depth the method of approach that would work best for John, a mixture of three different chemicals that stood the best chance at shifting the constriction. Murray turned to Sherlock when he was satisfied he and John had reached a solution. John would already know what he was about to say to the darker man. 

“Sherlock, none of these medications are easy, alright? He’s… I know you’ve been taking care of him and frankly job well done. Watson is a complete pain in the arse as a patient. He’s going to be sick on this. We will run it a week. No. No we won’t. Five days. We run it five days and see what that does for us, and we let him rest at least two. I want you back in the office next Monday, John. Sooner if labs scream at me, okay?” 

Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. “He took care of me while he was bleeding all in his skull. I can do this.” He meant it to. Even if he had to shut down and shut John out to do it for the duration, he could do it.

Murray nodded and stood up then. “Well, alright. I’ll be by this evening to drop off supplies and bring the mix. Going to have to have them put it together for me, not on the shelf, obviously. Kindly don’t shoot when I knock on your door,” he said to Sherlock as he extended a hand, waiting to see if the man would take it while addressing John, “We will do our best, John, this is worth trying.”

Sherlock shook his hand, “John hides them from me… After I shot the wall out of boredom.” He shrugged. A brief grin crossed his face as he remembered the day. 

John was on his feet, moving towards Sherlock’s voice, wrapping hand around Sherlock’s arm. “Good to see you, Murray… well… right. We’ll expect you round tonight, thanks for your swift response to me.” 

Murray watched as John nearly came apart in his office, looking to Sherlock pointedly before speaking softly to John. “Go have a shower and a nap, John. You’re in good hands.” He walked around to lead the men out, John pressed up hard to Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock took a moment to wrap John tightly to him. His nose buried in John’s hair as he spoke softly, Pashto gentle, not giving a damn if Murray understood. “Together. We will get through this together. I will do everything in my power to help you through this. Hold you together no matter what happens. I have you, John. I will not let you go and I will not let you fall.”

John stopped up short for a moment as Sherlock spoke to him, tears welling up from the burning backs of his eyes, throat constricting. They were powerful words, ones he knew Sherlock to mean fiercely. He nodded, short and tight, and tugged on Sherlock, just wanting to go back home. 

He walked out of the clinic in a daze, letting Sherlock press him into a cab, leaning against him through the drive, numb as he played out Murray’s words on repeat. He hardly noticed Sherlock pulling him out of the cab, took little note of the biting cold between the car door and house door, moved up the stairs in the pocket of Sherlock’s arm and started pulling toward the bedroom before Sherlock tried to put him somewhere in the sitting. He sank down to the edge of the bed slowly and finally whispered to Sherlock, “Those are terrible odds.”

Sherlock leaned in, his hands on either side of John’s face. He kissed him tenderly. He pressed his forehead against John’s and whispered. “We have both faced worse and we will beat these just as we beat those. I love you. I am here and we will come out of this victorious.”

John shook his head and looked down at his lap, fingers curling in on themselves, his voice small, “And if we don’t? If I don’t? I can’t-” he stopped talking as a tear slid down his cheek, angry and incredibly sad. He just wanted to rage at the world and sleep forever in equal measure and the effect of the combination left him feeling small and weak. “Everything I am hinges on being able to see. I’m nothing like this, Sherlock, and you know it just as much as I do.”

Sherlock’s posture and voice changed. “If it doesn’t work. If you can’t…” He took a deep breath. “If you can’t. We’ll go wherever you want to go and we’ll-” He swallowed, pushing ahead, knowing he meant it. “We’ll do whatever you want to do. However you want to. Lie on the fucking beach with morphine for all I care. But I won’t stay without you.”

John reached out and fisted his hand in the material of Sherlock’s shirt, just above the line of his trousers, leaning in and resting his forehead against the soft of Sherlock’s belly. He held tight and still for a few moments before he broke on the man. His free hand came up and wrapped tight around the small of Sherlock’s back as a recoiling, terrible sob broke free of his chest, pent up for days and days, shoulders shaking as he buried his face in Sherlock’s clothes. 

Sherlock held John to him. He’d made John a promise. Either this would work, or he would take them both out himself if John suffered too much. “I love you. I will always love you. I have loved you since the day I met you, even if I couldn’t see it.” But he had. When he’d looked across at him and told Lestrade to forget his apt description of John, he’d known. 

John clung to Sherlock through the duration of it, nearly gagging at times with the force of release. He’d not intended to fall apart so completely, but it snowballed as he swiftly lost control of himself. He’d pushed Sherlock so hard that the man was offering to kill them both, and John could not bring himself to feel anything other than sharp relief for it. He’d wonder what was wrong with him, but the list was too damned long. 

When he finally pulled back, he could hardly fill his lungs with the force of his catching breaths, stuttered and messy. He did not say to Sherlock how sorry he was, did not give it voice. There were not words to express it. He eased back enough to give Sherlock space, feeling weak and run down, dragging his palms over his face as he sniffled and pulled loudly at the air. 

Sherlock knelt in front of John. He spoke a soft sentence in Gaelic, head pressed to John’s knee. He stayed there, head on John’s knee, kneeling before him. Just being. Just taking in the situation.

He was John’s and John was his. He would not abandon him and he would not let him go alone into this. 

John leaned over, resting his cheek on the top of Sherlock’s head, his fingers sliding into Sherlock’s hair. He could not believe the tears still rolling down his cheeks, no idea how he was still able to make them. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice weak and catching, fingers gentle on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I don’t want that to happen to you. I- we’ll try, yeah? We’ll try.” 

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s calf. “I just want to be with you. We will go until you cannot anymore. If that is two days or two centuries from now, I will be with you.”

John sat up slowly and tugged at Sherlock. “Come lie down with me. Please? I just want to lie here with you.” He was pulling out of his clothes as he spoke, tossing them aside as he moved slowly, worried he may black out.  
He lay there naked, atop the covers, just waiting for Sherlock to join him. 

Sherlock stripped out of his clothes. He left the suit on the floor, not caring. He moved into the bed and curled up against John, nuzzling close, arm around John’s waist.

John draped himself over Sherlock, rolling to his side, blanketing over the man. There was nothing sexual about it, he simply had to be as close to Sherlock as he could get. “I’ve had all this time with you and I feel like it’s been none at all. I can’t… can’t stand this, Sherlock.” He clung tight to him, knowing this wasn’t what the man needed, sorry that he could not manage anything else at the moment. 

Sherlock held John close to him. “I love you. I am sorry. It’s going to work. It has to, it is going to work.” He nuzzled close. “I have you. I will always have you.” Sherlock stroked John’s back tenderly. He would protect this man to the ends of the Earth, even if it was from the painful existence he did not want.

John nodded with more vigor, his fingers curled up against his lips, desperately wanting Sherlock’s words to be true, happy to hold on to the story for now. Even if he learned to adjust to life without sight, he doubted Sherlock could learn to adjust to life with a blind partner. It would wear him thin, and John had no doubt he’d try, honestly try, to adapt. They were stuck. John could not make it without Sherlock, and Sherlock had demonstrated that he could not carry on without John. Twelve to thirty-seven percent were not favorable odds, but there were worse. 

“It’ll work,” he murmured, closing his eyes and savoring the sound of Sherlock’s heart. He thought on Sherlock’s offer, wondering, as he drifted down into sleep, if this was what dying would be like. 

Sherlock stayed awake. He soothed John any time he started to come up from sleep. Sherlock would protect this man. Always, no matter what. Something had shifted hard in Sherlock. He was John’s he could not, would not exist without him. He took in a deep breath. 

His mind was quiet, only exploring the newness of how he felt. Eventually, John’s breathing and warm weight dragged Sherlock under too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting down the road to a close though. This bumps the story to ~155k words, comparatively, we've got about 30k left to add. Thanks to all of you who've stuck with us.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of John's treatments.

John dreamed of the beach. He dreamed of the preparations in the dark, of the bustle of the airport, the terrified grip on Sherlock’s arm as they walked through the sea of people. He dreamed of the sand between his toes and the sun on his face as a needle bit into his skin, of holding Sherlock’s wrist tight in his hand, feeling the rhythm fade and stutter away, water lapping at his feet as he took a deep breath and sank down below the waves. 

His eyes came open before his mind fully processed waking, shaking Sherlock hard, panic in his chest. “Wait! Wait for me,” he cried out, confused in the darkness. 

Sherlock came awake instantly, grip tight on John. “Never leaving you. Ever.” Sherlock babbled a bit in Gaelic after that trying to find his footing in his mind, knowing only that John was panicked and he could not allow that. He nuzzled and kissed at John tenderly, attempting to soothe him.

John flailed for Sherlock’s arm, his fingers racing down to find the pulse, toes shifting on the mattress and stilling him. 

Home. Not the beach. Just a dream. 

He pressed his face down to Sherlock’s chest and pulled in a slow, deep breath, settling back down. The dream hadn’t been distressing until John thought he’d been left. Otherwise… otherwise it had been a suitable alternative to the slow decay of life that surely waited for them in failure. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath once more before trying to sink back into sleep. 

Sherlock stroked John’s back and hair as he lay there. He was still exhausted himself from the stress of the day. He hummed gently to John to soothe him. Slowly but surely, Sherlock drifted back to sleep. He did not release John though.

Mrs. Hudson fretted at the door for a moment. Murray was down in the foyer and she needed to wake the boys. Only, Sherlock had warned her off waking John herself, and she wasn’t keen to try again after she’d startled him so terribly the last time. She wrung her hands and stood at the door before making a small noise of frustration at herself and walking in. She bent down and touched Sherlock’s arm, keeping her eyes level with his, gently shaking him without speaking. John was draped over the man and he looked fretful enough as it was, even in his rest. 

When Sherlock opened his eyes she held a finger to her lips and whispered very softly, “Dr. Murray is here love, I’ll bring him up to the sitting.” 

She got up and moved out just as fast, closing the door behind her to fetch the doctor up. 

Sherlock nuzzled John’s head. He kissed along his brow slowly, “John love, we should get up and dress. We’ve slept right up until evening. Murray is here.” His hands stroked John’s back tenderly. 

John came awake easily, gripping tight to Sherlock for a brief moment before relaxing back down and groaning. He pressed his face down to Sherlock’s chest and took a deep breath, stretching his arms out and mumbling against Sherlock’s skin, “Should just stay in pyjamas I think, this isn’t going to be fun.” 

With that, he eased off of Sherlock and sat up in the bed, just waiting for Sherlock to dress and hand him something to wear. 

Sherlock moved from the bed, he dug through John’s drawers for the pair of cotton trousers he knew John loved most. He pulled them out and made note of the brand and size. Should they make it through this, Sherlock was buying him more before these could wear out completely. He grabbed a black tee as well. Sherlock gently pressed them into John’s hands. “I love you.”

He moved back across the room and dug in his bag. Having most of his clothing upstairs was going to become a problem. Sherlock huffed and dragged out a pair of loose fitting blue pyjama trousers and slid in them, forgoing anything else at the moment. He felt itchy and hot. He rubbed the back of his neck slowly.

Sherlock gently guided a now dressed John to the sitting room and settled him gently in his chair. He nodded to Murray. “Evening.”

Murray looked up from the plate of sandwiches and tea he was very happily munching on, gesturing with a breaded square to the door, “That is one hell of a landlady you’ve got there. Wonderful woman. How are you lot not eating with her about, she nearly stuffed me with food against my will.” He smiled and popped the last of the sandwich into his mouth, sucking down the last of the tea and walking into the kitchen to put away the plates and wash his hands. 

John smiled in the direction of the man’s voice, glad to have him around again. He reached out, whispering Sherlock’s name, wanting to hold on to Sherlock’s hand. 

Murray was drying his own hands, scrubbed pink and still heated, as he walked back into the sitting room and picked up his kit. “Alright, John. You know the song and dance with this, yeah? Cancel your plans and lets see if we can’t flush this out. Are you still completely in the dark right now?” He asked as he started pulling out his supplies. 

John nodded at him and listened carefully. “Nothing’s changed. Head hurts.” 

Murray nodded and hummed his understanding for John to hear as he gathered what he needed up and walked over to John’s chair, gently touching his knee to let the man know where he was. “Alright, Sherlock, let’s make sure you’ve a good understanding of how to draw these labs up, yeah? John, going to put a line in your left hand, don’t hit me.” 

John actually laughed at that as he offered his hand, “Oi, don’t wake a fevered man like you did and you won’t get hit. Was entirely your fault.” He shook his head as he thought of how he’d bloodied the doctor years ago, grimacing suddenly as Murray slipped the line into the vein and thread the catheter in a matter of seconds. Murray picked up one of the three vials to draw labs, talking to Sherlock. 

“When you do this after you’ve run drugs through here, you’ve got to pull a syringe out and toss it first, okay? No drawing within thirty minutes of pushing anything more than saline, and John, you should be orally drinking enough not to need saline. Don’t be difficult.” He walked Sherlock through the order of the labs and which tops needed a bit of a shake before storing. 

“Do you have any questions yet?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I’ve got it.” And so he did, the entire walkthrough stored very carefully in a part of his mind palace he considered unshakable. Sherlock held on to John’s hand, absentmindedly rubbing the jagged scar on himself. It was still uncomfortable, pulling badly when he moved wrong.

“How long before it starts to get bad?” He asked the question in a rush, needing to know how fast he had to prepare himself mentally.

John took that one as Murray cleared the line, shivering as his arm cooled. “Few hours, maybe? Won’t be...I mean, what all are you giving me?” he asked of Murray, realizing with a start that he’d forgotten which drugs specifically they were going with. 

Murray reminded John softly as he pulled out the smaller bag, square and clear with a neon yellow label on it. “Sherlock, he’s just going to feel sick for a little while. If it hurts him acutely, I wouldn’t expect that for a few hours, and it shouldn’t last long. If the morphine he’s already on orally doesn’t keep it at bay, I want you to call me. This is more of a… nausea, aches, muscle cramps sort of thing here.” 

He did not hang the bag yet. “John, need the lav or anything? Should probably get you in bed before we run this, yeah?” 

John nodded and scrubbed a hand over his hair before pulling on Sherlock’s hand, getting himself up and starting back to the room, leaving Murray and Sherlock to talk if they needed to. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded to himself. He nervously watched John, hands flittering across his stomach before he settled himself. John was everything. He looked back to Murray as he settled his mask back on. “Right, anything else you need to warn me about? And is there D5 in those supplies? He’s still not eating properly and if this is going to make him sick…” Sherlock had been through the wringer enough coming off drugs he knew what he needed should John get too far gone to eat at all.

Murray had regained his full height and was watching Sherlock closely. The man was exceedingly nervous. “Ah, Sherlock… do you mind if I call you Sherlock? Listen, you know this isn’t going to risk his life, yeah? I’m monitoring him closely, and if the drugs don’t work for his vision, we try something else. He’s going to be physically okay, yeah? I can tell he’s not adjusting well to missing his sight, but we have a lot of ground to cover before we start considering this a life-long condition. And no, I’ve not brought D5. If he won’t eat, I’m going to put him back in hospital. He’s well enough to eat. If it’s psychological, we need to address that. I’m going to run down to the corner and bring you back some Ensure and easy things for him to eat. If he needs us to feed him, he needs to be in hospital.” 

Sherlock pressed hard into the groove in his shoulder. His fingers expertly wringing pain from it. He nodded sharply. “Right. Okay. He’s- yeah, it’s bad.” Bad didn’t cover it. Murray’d likely section them both if Sherlock said ‘oh by the way it’s so bad we’ve mostly agreed to flounce off to the beach somewhere and off ourselves because he can’t do this and I can’t live without him.’

Sherlock let out a small, half-crazed laugh at the thought before pulling himself back together, fingers harsh on his shoulder. “This is John. He will be okay.”

Murray was openly looking at Sherlock as though the man had gone round the bend. He stepped forward slowly and reached out, pulling Sherlock’s hand away from his shoulder and looked down at the scar he was digging into. He let him go and stepped back, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“Mark told me you detoxed already, and that you’re on anxiety meds. Are they working or are you not taking it?” He crouched down in front of Sherlock, keeping his expression firm but sympathetic. “I’ve got one hell of a psychiatrist you both could talk to.”

Sherlock paused, running through his mind, “Not taking them, accident. John’s been- it’s been difficult. Too much new, too much to sort. Can’t talk, he could, I can’t.” He looked at Murray. “Wasn’t exactly legal. Everything I did to protect him.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Had to keep him safe, no matter the cost.”

Murray cracked a smile and shook his head. “Match made in heaven, then. You don’t have to talk about your past, you can just use him for your current situation, but there is no obligation to do so. Go and take your medication and then come back out here with your mobile, and let’s set up timed alerts for your meds and John’s.” 

He stepped back and looked around the flat, “Right, let me pop down to that corner store. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you could get him in bed and make him drink a glass of water, that would be good. Meds. Timer. Water.” 

With that, Murray nodded to Sherlock and headed back out of the room, down the stairs and out the door. 

John was already sitting on the edge of the bed. He’d taken care of his needs in the lav, brushed his teeth and washed his face as well. He sat there with sweating palms, lost in his thoughts as he waited for the men. 

Sherlock moved about the flat. He took his medication before moving into the room and settling on the bed beside John. He wrapped his arm around John’s waist. “I love you, with all that I have, I love you.” He leaned into him gently. 

His hands moved over his mobile setting alarms for his own medications. He’d let Murray tell him when he needed to set them for John’s meds. He nuzzled John’s cheek, “It will work.”

John nodded and leaned against Sherlock, exhaling slowly and closing his eyes. “I love you. Thank you for being cordial with Murray, he’s a good man. It’s been a lot of years since I’ve spent much time with him, but he’s good, Sherlock. He’s very, very good.” 

John shifted and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him in close. “I’m sorry I’m stressing you out. I know you’ve had to deal with so, so much.” He nuzzled Sherlock and squeezed him tight. “I’d rather do this in bed, I think. I already don’t feel that well.” 

Sherlock shook his head, “I’ve been forgetting my medication. It’s not you, it’s my body deciding to go sideways.” He pressed close to John. Sherlock kissed along his jaw. “I love you, we’ll do this wherever you want. I can stay in here and hold you if needed. Whatever you need and want.”

Sherlock relaxed into John’s arms, more at ease in realizing his anxiety was born from missed doses and not just losing his mind.

John nodded and pulled Sherlock closer to him as the man relaxed. He slid his hand down Sherlock’s back and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “It’s going to be alright. It is.” 

He pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s lips and pulled back slowly, moving back to his place on the bed, building up the pillows and leaning against them. 

Murray was back shortly after and bumbling about in the kitchen, tucking things away. He called out as he walked towards the men’s voices, “Coming in,” with an Ensure in one hand and a little cup of applesauce in the other. He walked into the bedroom and nodded to Sherlock, setting the things at the bedside. “John, put that in you right now. You can eat, you just don’t want to. Get over it. I’ll drag you back to hospital if you get anemic on me.” He winked at Sherlock as he bullied his friend, pressing the cold bottle into John’s hand and crossing his arms. “I’m standing right here until you kill that.” 

John frowned at Murray and pulled the bottle to his lips, tentatively sipping at it. His stomach audibly rolled on him and he pulled it away, already feeling ill. He looked in Murray’s direction and made a small sound of defeat. “Everything makes me sick.” 

The taller man was out of the room in the next moment, returning with his bag. He drew up a bit of medication and took John’s hand, slipping it into the line. “Here. we’ll add this to your dose. I’ll give you a minute.” 

He turned to Sherlock then, asking for him to get his mobile and sitting with him as they scheduled medications for John around the clock. He checked to make sure Sherlock had scheduled his own and then checked on his supply. “I can’t be your regular here, Mark will handle that. I’m going to let him know to come check you two more frequently.” 

John was already trying to power down the drink Murray had given him, the medication settling his stomach swiftly. He got the entire thing down, only to groan at the man when Murray handed him the applesauce. He closed his eyes and made a go of it, getting half down before giving it up. 

“Alright, well done, John, let’s get this started.” He hung the small bag, giving Sherlock instruction to run saline for ten minutes after it was done. He ran over the instructions again for Sherlock before patting John on the shoulder and promising to call in the morning for an update, giving Sherlock the number of the courier who would be stopping twice daily to pick up labs. “Any questions before I leave you lot to it?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Not from me. John?” He was still snuggling gently. His chin resting gently on John’s shoulder. He wanted John to be okay, needed it. He needed John okay for John’s sake. Some of it was selfish, but Sherlock desperately wanted John okay for John’s sake.

John shook his head and thanked Murray, who excused himself quietly after one last once over with him. He nodded and smiled to Sherlock as he left. 

John was quiet as he focused on himself, hissing a bit with the slight burn of it. He wrapped his arm around his bicep and turned his face to Sherlock’s neck. “Can we… I don’t know… crap telly or a book or something? I don’t want to think about this.” 

Sherlock nuzzled him, “Would you like me to read to you?” He wrapped John close to him, stroking along his back tenderly. “Let you lie back and rest. Could settle you between my legs, let you rest against me, like in hospital.”

John nodded eagerly and shifted so that Sherlock could get up. “Was working on that Foster Wallace book I’ve got out there on the mantle. Need to start over, forgot too much of it,” he said as he grimaced and rubbed his arm. Of course he’d be sensitive to the medication. It wasn’t supposed to burn, but it wasn’t unheard of. 

Sherlock looked up at the bag and down to John’s arm again. “Should I slow it?” He trailed fingertips against John’s jaw. Sherlock stood and stretched. His fingers trailed through John’s hair. He wanted to comfort, to soothe, to fix.

He watched the medicine for a moment as he continued carding his fingers through John’s hair. Sherlock would never abandon him. Not again. John would never be left on his own again.

John shook his head, “It’s not that bad, just uncomfortable. I’d rather have it over with.” he tipped his head to Sherlock’s fingers and hummed, “Thank you for staying with me,” he whispered as he settled back down in the bed, glad there was little effect thus far. 

Sherlock smiled to himself as he went to retrieve the book. He found it, a layer of dust upon it. A soft laugh, “Dust is elegant…” Sherlock found his way back into the bedroom and settled himself on the bed. He gently helped John until he was settled back against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock cracked the book and nuzzled John’s ear. He began reading, voice rumbling through them both.

John settled back comfortably and let his eyes close, one hand resting on Sherlock’s thigh, the other over his own fussing stomach. Sherlock holding him like this was incredibly soothing, the feel of his voice rumbling across him calming him instantly. 

He held on for a few chapters before dropping off into sleep again, warm and heavy, a soft smile on his lips.

Sherlock stopped reading when he felt John go lax. He made note of the page number and set the book aside. Sherlock watched the medicine as he let his mind go blank, content to hold John. He held John until the medicine ran through. 

Sherlock was grateful everything was within reach. He was careful not to jar John and ran saline, chasing the medicine. He needed to draw labs in a bit, but it could wait a while. He carefully set his internal clock for an hour.

John slept without disturbance, the combination of Sherlock at his back and the medication in his veins sinking him down into a dreamless sleep. 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open exactly one hour later. He was loathe to move the still sleeping John. Sherlock was gentle, the shift taking long minutes to complete as he let John lie back against the bed without disturbing him.

He was quick, efficient as he drew the labs before cleaning up after himself. He stored everything as he’d been instructed. Sherlock moved to the kitchen and gathered another bottle of Ensure and a bottle of water. He placed them beside the bed before wandering back out to eat. He forced himself to down a sandwich and a bottle of water. He was no good to John if he could not keep his own strength up.

Sherlock once again brushed crumbs from the countertop into the bin. He took another bottle of water with him to the bedroom. Sherlock stripped out of his pyjama bottoms and curled up beside John, clicking off the lamp as he did.

He wasn’t long awake, slipping off into sleep, happy that John was resting.

John managed another hour of sleep before it started. He woke slowly, shifting slightly as he came awake, touching a hand to his face in the darkness. He blinked a few times, trying to get something by way of vision back, awake for several minutes before the slow build began. 

John sat up silently, trying to orient himself. His head ached and he had to work hard to recall where he was. He sighed as he touched the bed, abruptly remembering everything. He dragged a hand down his face and shifted to drop his feet over the edge of the bed, intent to drag himself to the lav. 

He made it to the wasteland between the bed and the wall, nothing within arm’s reach, when a powerful wave of vertigo hit him and he listed sharply to the left and went down hard, nausea ripping through his gut. He pressed his palms to the floor, head dropped to his chest, panting as he tried to get Sherlock’s name past his lips at an audible decibel. 

John’s crash to the floor had Sherlock out of the bed and the lamp clicked on. Sherlock went to his knees beside John. “I’ve got you.” He stroked a hand down John’s back slowly. “Headed to the lav, yeah?” He moved to his feet, crouching before John. He slowly, very slowly, drew him up to his feet and held him close. “Let me know when you’re ready to move.”

John tipped his face to Sherlock’s chest and took a moment to breathe slowly, taken by surprise by the abrupt nature of the episode. He nodded and clung to Sherlock’s arm, wanting to go back to the bed but desperately needing the lav. He let Sherlock go when tile was under his feet and plodded over with a hand on the counter, managing what he needed as fast as possible. 

He started to shiver as he washed his hands, overly warm despite the way his body was reacting. He reached back out for Sherlock and groaned, leaning heavy on him as he began to feel worse. “This isn’t fun,” he whispered, doing his best to keep his knees under him. 

Sherlock was gentle and slow when he drew John off the floor and into his arms. He kissed John’s temple. “No, it’s not… but it will be worth it.” He carried John to the bed, carefully putting him down, making sure he was comfortable. He was happy to take care of him, even as his heart broke at John’s current state. John was miserable and it tore Sherlock to pieces.

John was already reaching for him the moment Sherlock let him go, waiting for the man to get back in bed, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s arm and pressing close, tipping his face to Sherlock’s arm, shivering hard enough for his teeth to chatter. 

“Can I have morphine? My head is killing me,” he asked as calmly as he could manage. His breathing was tight with the posture of his body, defensively curled around his stomach, “this shouldn’t… shouldn’t last long.” 

Sherlock reached across John and gathered the pills. He shook out two and pressed them to John’s hand before giving him the water bottle, letting him know it was open. When John had the pills down, Sherlock just rubbed his back slowly. 

He waited it out with John, letting the episode pass. He was gentle, loving, everything people thought Sherlock Holmes incapable of. Slowly they eased back down on the bed and Sherlock continued soothing John. 

John managed to find a position that was comfortable and tried to settle back into sleep. He shifted every few minutes, openly uncomfortable after very little time in any position. He fussed quietly, exhausted and unable to sleep. 

“I don’t want to do this several times a day, fuck,” he finally groused, pushing himself up, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

Sherlock frowned. “I know. I don’t want you to have to do this. I love you. I am sorry.” He stroked John’s cheek gently. “One minute at a time if you have to, yeah?”

This was killing him. But he’d not show that to John. He was going to be everything John needed. He kissed John’s temple. “Let me know if I need to contact him about pain. Okay?”

John nodded and dropped his hands into his lap, “It’s just uncomfortable. I’m tired and I want to sleep but I can’t lie still. It’s not overly painful.” 

He followed Sherlock’s voice back down, draping over him, tucking his face against Sherlock’s neck as he spoke, “Gladstone is the name of a carry bag, why did you choose that?”

Sherlock smiled as he rubbed John’s back, “Hm. Lived out of one, kept myself and you safe with its contents. And for William Ewart Gladstone as well. Since he reportedly treated Queen Victoria with no more respect than anyone else.”

He huffed slightly, “Cannot believe you picked up on that.”

John smiled and nodded, pressing a soft kiss to the dip of Sherlock’s shoulder. “I imagine I’d surprise you with how much I listen to you. Remember nearly all of your impossibly fast ramblings.” 

He shivered hard again, shifting from overly hot to chilly, tugging at the blankets and huffing. “I was supposed to be done with this. At least I’m still in English, Christ.”

Sherlock pulled the covers up around him and tucked him in. “I like hearing you in both. You’d be surprised how… invigorating I find hearing and learning other languages. But I am glad you have control of it.” 

Sherlock splayed a hand at the small of John’s back. He let out a soft sigh as they lie there, happy just to be close to him for the moment.

John hummed and settled down deeper as warmth crept over him slowly. He sighed and closed his eyes, tucking a hand up to his mouth, holding on to Sherlock. It did not take long for him to drift asleep once his body decided to settle. He eased into the darkness without effort, dreamless and lax once again. 

Sherlock cuddled him close as he slept. He let himself enter a twilight sleep, resting, but aware of John’s every breath. Images of the sea crashing against cliffs invaded his thoughts. John standing at the edge. Lush plant life around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're drawing to a close. We started writing this fic, originally, in the summer. We finished and let it lie, eventually coming back to it and deciding to publish. We've been overwhelmed by the response. We never imagined so many people would love this story as much as we do.
> 
> Three more chapters and a very sweet/smutty (long at ~11,000 words) epilogue to go. Thanks for sticking with us everyone.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go badly.

John slept without disturbance until Sherlock’s mobile chirped at them. He mumbled, blinking slowly, not at all trying to pull up out of proper sleep. His body was heavy and sluggish and his mind felt stuffed with cotton, fuzzy and shallow. 

“‘s too loud,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s neck, realizing then that he’d been sweating. He groaned and moved off Sherlock, landing on his side, wishing he had his vision to help with the sudden spinning. His hand shot out and wrapped tight around Sherlock’s wrist as he tried to breathe through it. 

Sherlock, gently rubbed his other hand down John’s arm. He let John settle again. “It’s the reminder for meds.” Sherlock fumbled for it, squinting to see which one of them needed medicine. John. Christ. Not again. Not already. Sherlock pushed up. “It’s time love. I’m sorry.”

John just nodded at him, slowly sitting up, already feeling dizzy and frail. “Okay let me just...I, ugh. Okay.” He shifted back against the headboard and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck to help ground himself as he stretched out his hand for Sherlock, deeply averse to letting the medication run again. 

“Did he leave you the nausea medication? Christ I feel sick.” 

Sherlock clicked on the light after moving out of the bed. He went through the supplies and drew up a dose easily. Sherlock was skilled with the needle, alcohol swiped over the port. “Giving it now, love.” Sherlock pushed it slowly before opening the prepackaged saline flush. He pushed it behind the medicine.

He disposed of the syringes and went about gathering the medicine from the living room, humming softly as he did so John would know where he was. When he returned, he dropped his voice, wanting to make John smile, “Bell might not be a bad idea… There are all sorts of delightful ways I can think to attach it to my person.”

He prepped everything as he’d been shown as he watched John.

John gave him a gentle laugh and shook his head, running his hand over the back of his neck in an effort to quiet himself, the warm flood of the anti-emetic helping to steady him. 

“‘M sure you could get very creative,” he said with a lopsided smile, licking at his lips and waiting to get the damned thing done with. 

Sherlock chuckled as he hung the medicine. He was gentle as he hooked everything up. Sherlock settled on the bed. “Come on, back between my legs, yeah? I’ll read some more to you.” 

He helped John move back to the spot, snuggling him up against him. Sherlock nuzzled under his ear.

John let his head turn to the side and groaned as the medication started flowing. He shifted against Sherlock, not ready to be back to chest, turning more to his side as his body demanded his attention. He was breathing through parted lips, suddenly feeling nearly fluish, his stomach rolling hard. “Oh, this isn’t like last time,” he whispered, a dull ache starting up at the base of his skull. He pulled a knee up, grimacing as he moved the tender ankle. “I don’t like this.” 

Sherlock hummed in worry, “Can I do anything?” He immediately went on alert. He checked that his mobile was in reach. He’d not have John suffer if there was anything to be done about it. He gently rubbed along John’s back. “I love you.”

John whimpered at him, turning his face to Sherlock’s neck and balling up tighter. “It’s not pain it’s… feel sick, really sick. Gotta be the hormone,” he whispered, slurring his words as he pressed against Sherlock. He licked his lips and tried to breathe through it. 

“I don’t know… think we should just try and let it pass,” he added after a few minutes, clutching to Sherlock’s shoulder, wishing the odds were more in his favor for this to actually work. 

Sherlock nodded. “I’ve got you. Let me know if you can think of anything my love.” He just tried to soothe him as they sat there. Sherlock was at a loss. John was sick and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.

He’d never been so helpless before outside of being confined. This was different, nearly overwhelmingly horrifying.

John managed to drop into a swift doze as Sherlock soothed him, finding it very hard to stay awake without visual input to distract him. He floated like that nearly fifteen minutes before coming sharply awake with a cry, hands scrabbling at his head. He grit his teeth and shook his head, moving suddenly to yank the line, stopping himself and speaking in a rush, “Cut it off, Christ, cut it off and call oh god,” he was already in tears, his head killing him as gold light cracked across his non-existent vision. 

Sherlock swore. He shifted John as gently as he could while still moving fast. He cut the medicine and unhooked the line. Sherlock put the saline on John wide open. He had his mobile on speaker, ringing Murray as he did.

Murray came over the line quickly, his voice a bit heavy with sleep. “Murray here,” he said as he looked at the number, realizing who it was. 

John, meanwhile, was rocking slowly with his hands tangled hard in his hair, unable to silence the clipped sounds of pain, pressing against Sherlock and rocking away over and over again in a bid to distract from the pain of it. 

“Sherlock?” Murray asked, already pulling himself out of bed to dress. 

“Just bloody well get here. I’ve no idea. Went through fifteen minutes of it. Came back up screaming, holding his head. Have saline running full bore. Rocking. John, can you tell me anything?” Sherlock tried to soothe him as best he could.

Murray swore and kept the phone on speaker as he dressed, running through his mind various options. It was far sooner than he expected for John to be anywhere near this sort of distress. 

“Sherlock, when was the last he had morphine?” He asked as he grabbed his keys and took off for his car. 

John was hardly listening to them, doing his best to keep himself calm and in control of the blistering pain in his head. He was sure that one second of distraction would drop him down into panic and he was already having trouble keeping his breathing steady. 

“Ah, little while before this round maybe three hours? I don’t know for certain right now. It was, sleep, napping. Christ.” Sherlock braced, just letting John rock against him when he needed to. “Is there _anything_ here?” Sherlock glanced at the morphine pills and the port in John’s arm. His jaw worked. Nothing doing, bloody dangerous business that.

“I’m ten minutes out, Sherlock, I’ll be there. Leave him, just wait.” Murray hung up the line as he turned on the engine and began to drive. 

John was a shaking mess at that point, his cheeks slick with tears, stomach threatening him, one side of his head blistering hot while his body ran cold and shivering. He pulled hard at his hair and abruptly stopped moving as his mouth began to water. “No,” he whispered desperately, terrified of vomiting while his head ached so. He groaned and turned his face to Sherlock's shoulder, panting shallow and fast. 

Sherlock held John close. He rubbed John’s back soothingly. “I love you, he’s coming. Murray is on his way. I’ve got you.” Sherlock watched the clock. John was in pain and there was nothing he could do about it. The thought was enough to drive him mad.

John pressed hard against Sherlock before he suddenly pulled away, “Bin,” he rasped, starting to get off the bed for the lav before remembering the drip as he tugged his hand too far. He whimpered as he pressed the heel of his palm into his eye, the other pulling hard at his hair, mouth watering in warning. 

As soon as Sherlock shoved the bin to his hands John lost it, quietly heaving over the basket, crying out as pain lanced brilliant enough to flood his would-be vision with gold light, toes curling. 

Murray found the pair like this, let in by an embarrassed Mrs. Hudson all wrapped in her dressing gown, hovering beside him at Sherlock’s door. He left her there and went to John’s side, grabbing up the anti-emetic and looking at Sherlock, “Did you give him this?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Dosed him before I hung the meds. Told me he thought it was the hormones at first.” He cleared his throat wondering how many times Mrs. Hudson was going to see his arse this bloody week. “He had morphine about three hours ago. We were in and out for a while.” He yanked John’s dressing gown from nearby and slid it on. Short, but at least he wasn’t indecent.

Murray moved over to John, assessing him from a distance for the moment, watching his guarded posturing and the way he held himself between violent heaving. “Could you get him a cloth, Sherlock?” Murray asked as John began openly sobbing, resting his forehead down on the bin. Murray eased it away from him and set it aside, wrapping a strong arm across the front of John’s chest as he pulled a stethoscope from his pocket. 

He listened to John with the drum at his back before dropping the buds from his ears and easing John back against the buildup of pillows at the headboard. His hands were gentle as he started to assess him. He flicked his eyes up to look at the medication and frowned. They’d only managed half the bag. 

“John,” he whispered gently, pulling a penlight out, “gotta open your eyes for me. Sherlock’s bringing you a cloth.”

Sherlock swiped his trousers off the floor as he returned with the cloth. He gently pressed it into John’s hands and pulled his trousers on. He shed John’s dressing gown as he watched. He was calm.

John was pulling away from Murray’s hands, pressing the cloth over his face. He mumbled to Murray, wanting to be left alone. Murray clicked his tongue and followed John, narrowing his eyes. “John,” he called out, trying to grab his attention back. 

John pushed at Murray’s hand and backed away, still mumbling behind the cloth, words Murray could not make out. “John… just hold up a hand for me,” he instructed gently, voice a bit louder to try and reach the man. He got nothing from him, no reaction at all, as though John had not heard him. 

Murray swore and reached out, gently putting a hand over John’s, only to watch the man jerk back away from him, keeping his face hidden. He looked over to Sherlock as he got to his feet, “Has he been responding to you appropriately?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, there’s been nothing out of the ordinary- well he said the first dose burned. Wouldn’t let me turn the drip down. John? Can you drop the cloth?”

Murray watched John with a critical eye as the man simply stopped responding to them. He reached out and touched him after another moment of silence, making a sound of interest when John did not react at all. 

“Alright, John, keep being tricky,” he said under his breath, shaking his head and moving to his bag, “Told you he’s a terrible patient. Aren’t you, John? Well, we’ll fix it.” Murray was unfazed at the moment, worried but still optimistic. He began to draw up several medications as he watched John, humming in thought. 

Sherlock licked his lips and spoke softly, Pashto, “John, can you understand me?” It was a risk, but John had shut down before when he couldn’t understand.

Murray did swear then, when John reacted to Sherlock. That… that was not what he wanted to see happen at all. John held still, nodding gently to Sherlock before groaning and letting go of the cloth to better grip at his head. 

“Touching your arm, John,” he warned in Pashto as he picked up John’s hand and slipped the needle into the port, slowly pushing a bit of morphine before the rest. 

John flinched but did not pull his hand away, going more docile, his focus on the pain in his head. 

Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face slowly. This was not supposed to happen. He swore in Gaelic under his breath as he watched. This was not happening.

Murray capped the needles and tucked them away, wrapping his fingers around John’s wrist and monitoring his pulse as he settled down on the edge of the bed, watching his patient as he spoke to Sherlock. “Not part of the plan here, Sherlock, I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. He should be in hospital with this sort of shift.” 

John all but came off the bed, tearing his hand away from Murray, reaching out for Sherlock and gripping him desperately hard about the leg. “No,” he responded in English, having understood what Murray said as well, the morphine taking the pain down a few degrees and letting him move, at least. “Not going. Not happening. Turn off the fucking lights, Christ.”

Sherlock arched a brow, “John, are the lights hurting you?” He looked at Murray as his hands went to John’s hair, working through it tenderly, seeking in any way he could to ease the pain back further,

John leaned hard into Sherlock’s hand and nodded, shaking hard enough to chatter his teeth. Murray moved swiftly then, “John, I’ll turn out the lights but you’ve got to let me look at your eyes, yeah?” He tried to gently turn John’s head away from Sherlock’s leg, only to have John become abruptly combative with him, putting strength behind the effort to forcibly shove Murray away, shouting at him in Pashto. 

“Alright then,” Murray said, putting his hands up as he got off the bed and gave John space, familiar with how volatile the man had been in hospital. He walked to the edge of the bed and clicked on the softer light before killing the overheads. 

Sherlock’s voice was quiet, soothing, Pashto again. “John, please let him look at your eyes. Please, for me. I love you.” He spoke another sentence in Gaelic, words tender, loving.

John pressed his face to Sherlock’s leg and groaned, answering in kind, broken words as he confessed to not entirely understanding what was going on. Murray, thankfully fluent in several languages himself, moved over again and began to speak to him, using the defaulting language. 

“Watson, come on now, let me see you,” he said firmly as he slid a gentle hand back to the side of John’s face and basically bullied the man into turning his head away from Sherlock’s leg, swiftly prizing up an eyelid and flicking the light across it. 

John shouted but held still, desperately clinging to Sherlock’s leg as Murray let him go. He stood back and folded his arms over his chest, a finger on his lips in thought. “Very reactive,” he said gently to Sherlock, staring at John. “This, however, is unexpected. I’m not giving him anything that should make him confused or in pain like this. Could be the hormone, and I’ll stop giving that, but this…” 

John was slowly growing lax against Sherlock, constantly whispering to him without enough volume to be heard properly. 

Sherlock shook his head and untangled himself from John. He carefully laid him back in the bed. “John, can’t understand you love. He’s just going slowly boneless on me.”

“Who is?” John asked, groggy and turning his face towards Sherlock. He reached out and pulled at him, “What are you talking about?” 

Murray dug his mobile from his pocket and held up a finger to Sherlock as he dialed a number and stepped swiftly out of the room, leaving the pair alone for a moment. 

Sherlock curled onto the bed with John, “You need some rest love. How are you feeling?” Sherlock was terrified. Everything had shifted sideways, horrifically. He kissed John’s temple tenderly as he waited to see what was going on with Murray’s phone call.

John turned his face to Sherlock and slid his hand across Sherlock’s neck, dizzy and coming down from such acute pain. He could hear someone on the phone in the other room, blinking in the darkness. He turned back to Sherlock and closed his eyes, humming for a moment as he considered the question. “B-better than you look.”

Sherlock stared at John, “Can you see me?” He ran a hand through his hair, scrubbing and trying to tame the curls suddenly. “John?” His eyes were slightly wide. He put a hand on John’s cheek, thumb running along his cheekbone.

John blinked his eyes open and studied Sherlock’s haggard face for a moment before mumbling to him in Pashto, “‘Course I can see you,” he answered before closing his eyes again, “head hurts, feel terrible.” 

Sherlock smiled softly, “I think we can get you something for that. Your friend Murray is here.” Sherlock’s raised his voice, hands going gently over John’s ears while he did. “Murray, in here, now please.” His voice was calm, undercurrent of pleasure.

He pulled his hands off John’s ears, “Didn’t want to hurt your head. I love you.”

Murray moved back into the room, hand over the mike, looking at Sherlock and puzzling at the sudden, calm shift. “What?” 

Sherlock’s voice was soft, “Apparently he feels better than I look. Not sure that says much for how I look right now...”

“That he feels better than you look. Right.” He tugged his hand away from the mobile and told the other on the line he’d call back. 

“John?” He called out as he moved to the side of the bed and sat down, turning the man to his back, “John I need you to really focus here okay? You can see?” 

John was already reaching for Sherlock as he was moved away, looking up at Murray in confusion, blinking as his vision blurred, tears from overly sensitive eyes. “Leave me alone,” he whispered hoarsely, shifting away, clearly not recognizing Murray.

Murray eased back and pulled his hands away. “Smile for me, John,” he asked gently, his mobile still in his hand, “John, you’ve got to run through this with me right now.” 

John turned his head back to Sherlock, eyes narrowed, reaching for him. 

Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand. “Please, John. Need you to do this for us.” He squeezed gently. “We need to try all of this. Listen to Murray, yeah? He’s here to help. I asked him to come help.”

John turned back to face Murray, grimacing at the pain in his head, giving the man a swift smile. Murray nodded to him and asked him to squeeze his hands, taking them from Sherlock, waiting for the man to comply. “Okay, John, taking Sherlock here for just a moment. Just relax.” 

He nodded to Sherlock as he dialed a number and stepped out of the room, waiting for him as the line rang. 

Sherlock kissed John tenderly and slipped from the bed, trailing after Murray wondering, just what in the bloody fuck was going on. A twitch at the corner of his mouth as the curse flitted across his mind. All John. John was so much a part of him… everything he did.

He pulled the door partially to as he watched Murray.

Murray was hanging up the line as Sherlock came in. He spoke fast and soft so that John would not hear them. “Sherlock, I’ve got an ambulance on the way, John’s having a stroke. I think that narrowing we were trying to budge just let go and it’s causing an embolism. We are going to get him into surgery to set it right, they are already prepping for him.” 

He swept his eyes over Sherlock for a moment, “Throw on a shirt and grab your pills, yeah? I’m sure you’d like to ride with him. Good news is, it was a blockage, and once they clear it up his sight should be fine. Just got to get him past this.”

Sherlock couldn’t hear for a few terrifying moments. This was. not. happening. Not happening. Sherlock stared at Murray for a few moments, longer than he should have. Suddenly he snapped out of it, shut down, and spun on his heel. He went into the bedroom and threw on a tee. It was John’s. He didn’t care. Sherlock threw his pills back into the duffle back and sat down on the bed. His fingertips trailed along John’s jaw. “I have you, you will not fall.”

John reached up and grabbed Sherlock’s fingers, speaking in a slurred jumble of English and Pashto once again, “Something’s wrong,” he said as he watched him, blinking up at the ceiling, looking around the room. “I can see.. and… something is wrong. I feel wrong.” His eyes snapped back to Sherlock, suddenly aware of his ability to visually take him in, greedy as he studied his face, absorbing the details through a haze of confusion. He tugged at Sherlock as the sound of an ambulance siren roared down the street, lights flashing painfully through the window. 

“I love you,” he said in a rush, pinching his eyes closed, his grip on Sherlock’s fingers easing slowly. 

Sherlock kissed John and leaned his forehead against him. “I love you, I love you with my all, John. We’re going to make you better. I love you. Christ, I love you.” He was desperate for John to know that at least. All the while he made plans in case this went sideways the worst of ways.

John flexed his hands and looked at Sherlock again, wincing with the light, hearing the medics coming up for him. He tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve hard and pointed at him. “You,” he slurred, his tongue heavy in his mouth, “don’t… not unless I’m in the ground… no more dealers, don’t run. Please don’t run. God, Sherlock don’t run,” he was still pleading with him as darkness slowly reached up and pulled him down, fingers going lax against the bed as Murray came in with the medics. 

“Sherlock,” Murray said in a rush as he moved over to John’s side, pressing his fingers to John’s neck and barking at the medics. 

Within half an hour, John was transported right back to Bart’s, under the knife, Murray and Mark both joining Sherlock in a private waiting area. 

Mark finally had to sedate Sherlock. He’d gone half off, the lack of steady meds and stress of the situation leading him down a very dangerous road. What ifs and things spilling out of his mouth that would wind up with him heavily drugged and chained to a bed if anyone else heard him.

Sherlock glared at Mark as the drug hit. He’d had to sneak up on him and jab it in his hip from behind. “Bloody arse. Always stabbing me with drugs… First night I met him.” He pointed accusingly while talking to Murray, “Drugged me! Chained me up!”

He huffed, “Might’ve gone after him a bit though.”

Murray, a much larger man than Mark, steered the man into a chair and pushed him down into it as Mark shook his head. “Chained my arse. You were carefully settled to keep yourself safe.” He gave Sherlock a lopsided grin and then settled again. John had been in theater an hour and a half at that point, no decent update. Last he’d heard via Murray, the team was having trouble locating the clot. 

“Sure you don’t want us to call anyone?” 

“Oi, uh… Molly, Greg, don’t need them, just. Need to know.” He huffed. “No one else gets to tie me to beds! Not your job. Brute.” 

Sherlock was definitely falling down the sedative’s path and Mark rolled his eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Did _not_ want to know that.”

Murray watched the pair, shaking his head. “Jesus, Mark did you put him all the way down?” moving as Sherlock began to slouch low in the chair. 

A nurse chose that minute to pop his head in, addressing Murray, “Found the clot, going after it now, suspect another hour, maybe two. Down on the table once, thirty four seconds. That was half an hour ago.” 

Murray made sure Mark had Sherlock before going to his feet and hollering the nurse out of the lounge, shouting him down for loss of tact. 

Mark had a hell of a time keeping Sherlock down. Christ the man was stronger than he looked. “Murray!” Sherlock managed an elbow to Mark’s nose rather hard. Mark swore as he tried to keep Sherlock pinned with blood dripping from his nose. “Christ, I forgot. Should have used something different. He’s getting the euphoria, nothing else.”

Sherlock got a booted foot up and slammed it into Mark’s shin taking him to the floor.

Murray shoved the nurse out and turned around, making it to Sherlock’s back in several strides, reaching down and grabbing his scruff with one hand, his wrist with the other. It was simple enough to twist the man’s arm behind his back before he spoke to him, pulling him far away from Mark, “Stop it. Sherlock, that’s Mark you’re kicking into the floor and the poor bastard has just been helping. Stop. You can bloody all of London, will do fuck all for John. Sit down and breathe.” 

He pushed Sherlock back into a chair and let him go, moving back to help get Mark up off the floor. 

Mark scrubbed at his nose, “Glancing, just a bit of blood. Who let him put on those bloody boots?” He crossed to the small lav attached, a slight limp on the shin. “Jesus, these two.” He wet a paper towel and held it to his nose.

Sherlock sulked in his chair. He’d been trying to get to the nurse. “Nurse ought to be bloodied.”

Murray sat right next to Sherlock, arms crossed, clearly keeping him in line with the threat of bodily intervention. “Thought he was addressing medical staff. Ease off. John’s okay right now.” 

He looked up to the lav and called out to Mark, “Oi, you broken in there?”

Mark felt the nose and peered at the mirror. He came out with a damp paper towel, “Just bruised. Again.” He shook his head. These two were going to be the death of him. “Sherlock, settle. John’s- he’s been through worse. We’ll get him through this alright?”

Sherlock nearly exploded out of the chair, drug taking him to his knees before Murray could. “He was _dead. DEAD_! Fucking promised. Told him I wouldn’t let him suffer… Told him. Beach. Morphine, something.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. That’s what Sherlock had been rambling about earlier. He’d only caught snippets and hadn’t wanted to hear more. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Sherlock was going to wind up drugged to the gills somewhere if he didn’t shut up.

Murray was on his feet, carefully plucking the man up off the floor and putting him back into a chair, one hand splayed on his chest as Murray crouched in front of him. “Sherlock. Watson’s heart is like this. Goes out on him when he’s stressed medically. He’s okay. Now listen to me, look right here, Sherlock, right at me.” He waited for Sherlock to comply, keeping his grip tight on the man. 

Sherlock looked at him. “What?” He gazed at Murray, half glaring, trying to keep tears out of his eyes. He’d about reached his limit. He would not abandon John though. Not now, not ever.

“We,” he motioned between himself and Mark without looking at the other man, “did _not_ hear that. You and John are going to be alright, there is no need for beaches and morphine. Even if he stays blinded, no reason. You are going to sit here, and breathe, and _slow down_ so that John can bloody well hold your hand when he wakes up. Mark and I can only protect you so much.” 

Sherlock nodded numbly. He just wanted John. Wanted John better. They’d suffered enough, hadn’t they? Hadn’t they been through enough hell? Semtek and Moriarty, chlorine and falls, jungles and bullets?

Mark cleared his throat, “Of course you’ve been through enough.” Sherlock didn’t even know he was muttering aloud. “It’s okay Sherlock. It’s going to be okay.”

Murray shook his head and swore under his breath. If Watson didn’t make it off that table, Sherlock was going to be impossible to handle. He kept a hand on the man as he settled back down, for the exclusive purpose of keeping him from attacking Mark again. 

“Should we maybe find him a bed? You dosed him heavy.”

Mark nodded, “I arranged for them to be where they were before they left. It’s a large room, hospital’s being redone in parts. Let’s go ahead and get him up there. Might be best, for the remainder of surgery anyhow.”

Sherlock huffed, “Still in the room.” His words here heavy, bit slurred. Mark moved closer to Sherlock and Sherlock made no moves. “Come on you. Let’s get you upstairs. You can wait for John in your room, yeah?” Sherlock nodded a bit and Mark hauled him to his feet. With Murray’s help they got him upstairs and out of his boots and tee. 

Mark threaded a line in Sherlock’s hand just in case. Sherlock didn’t object. Finally he drifted off into a doze. Mark sat in the hard plastic chair he’d sat at doing paperwork, “Thought I’d made it out of this room. Was kipping across the hall while they were here. Wife barely saw me. Christ. So you knew John before this?”

Murray stood beside Sherlock for a moment, a bit perplexed by Mark’s casual handling of Sherlock without admitting him. He shrugged it off and paced over to the man. “Yes, served with John several times. Put him back together after an IED, and then again after catching the Jezebel, and nursed him through enteric fever afterwards. John’s died on me twice, lazy beggar.” He smirked fondly and shook his head. 

“John was a ladies man back when I knew him, never would have put money on him settling with a bloke. They’re one hell of a match, though.” 

Murray went quiet for a few minutes before talking to Mark again, “He was back in a mix of languages, confused and combative. Was giving him drugs to avoid this, happened anyway. He was sighted though, when he woke up. Or at least saying as much. I don’t know.” He shrugged and settled down next to Mark, staring in Sherlock’s direction. 

Mark watched Sherlock, “Sherlock told me that they weren’t… Not until John fished him from the side of the Thames, strung out. I’m sure you saw the papers. About him.” He nodded in Sherlock’s direction. “When he got back John had been captured. They thought he was dead. No one but him made it out. Sherlock went off the deep end, disappeared, hit the needle.” 

Mark shook his head. “It was not pretty here… I thought he was going to kill me the first night. Comes over him sometimes, whatever he did. Frightening to see if I’m being honest. I thought they’d been married for years. Apparently they were flatmates for a couple years and only now has everything surfaced. Damned if I know. They make a hell of a team though. Bit eerie how well they communicate. Swear they can just look at each other, well when John can see.”

Sherlock stirred, voice groggy, “I can still hear you know.”

Mark huffed. “Do shut it and go back to sleep. Still no word.” Sherlock pulled the pillow over his head, ignoring them.

“Anyhow. Have standing paperwork on the idiot in the bed. I’ll sign it in a bit. I had him in without admitting him last time. I think this time we’re going to need to keep him sedated for a bit, not all the way down but… What I gave him wasn’t enough. He’d going to need some actual stabilizers for a while and a goddamned shrink.”

Murray nodded, in full agreement there. “Gotta be someone who can sort this. He held it together at the flat pretty well, took me by surprise that he actually attacked you.” 

He checked his watch and shook his head, “Long time for this, they’re having trouble.” 

The pair sat quietly for a while, Murray letting Mark alone and watching Sherlock sleep, putting his mind to sedatives more suited to an addict. A female nurse came in near the four hour mark to let them know John was being moved. Murray looked to Mark and then to Sherlock, clearly handing the more experienced doc the reins in dealing with the volatile man. 

Mark swore under his breath. He stepped into the hall pulling Murray with him. “He’s not going to like it. We’re going to have to sedate and restrain him. Sherlock’s at breakdown levels. He’s already suffered one episode. If they’re going to keep them apart… Sherlock will not handle it.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do other than that. Not until we have a handle on what’s going on with John, exactly.”

Murray looked at Mark as though he’d lost it. “Mark, they are… surely she meant moving him up from surgery. Let me go see what’s on, yeah?” 

Murray dropped a hand to Mark’s shoulder and then walked away to go speak with a nurse. He was back swiftly, talking to Mark faster than earlier. “Bringing him up, he’s not breathing on his own yet though, how do you want to deal with Sherlock?”

Mark scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Sedation. Twilight him if we can. Christ, I don’t care if we make the man euphoric. Actually, no… hold on.” He stepped back in the room, beckoning Murray with him.

“Sherlock. Talk to me. It’s about John,” Mark’s voice was soft.

Sherlock sat up in the bed, looking surprisingly clear for how hard Mark had put him down. “What is it?”

Mark held up a hand. “He’s out of surgery. I don’t have details other than he’s still on a vent. Are you going to be able to handle this?”

Sherlock turned it over in his mind. “Mild, if I- if I go like I did when he broke free, put me down hard. Bring me around, check me out every once in a while until- until he’s coming around?”

Mark thought about it, “Going to admit you, fully voluntary, okay?”

Sherlock nodded. Mark breathed a sigh of relief and went to fetch a mild drug and put in the orders. Sherlock looked at Murray. “How bad? With him still on the vent.”

Murray shook his head, “Can’t speculate, Sherlock, I’m sorry. Don’t know why he went down on the table yet. Let’s just let him get in here. They are letting you have your odd setup here, so that’s a good sign. Do not go after Mark again if you can help it, I’m not keen to keep plucking you off folks.” 

He could hear the rattle of the team moving John down the hall, looking over to Sherlock. “Look at me, yeah? I know you’re right up to the edge of what you can handle, I know,” he kept his voice calm and sympathetic, mirroring how he felt. “Listen to me, Sherlock, he might look bad, people out of surgery always look pale and lifeless, yeah? Doesn’t mean he is.” 

He took a step closer to Sherlock’s side as the team moved in the door, pushing the bed in, starting to set up with far too many people for him to get a decent look at John. 

Mark was able to slip around them and get the sedative in Sherlock before they’d finished. Sherlock looked over at him with a half glare. Oh, that sedative. Sherlock’s head swam and he laid back on the bed. Mark elevated his head and wrapped the admission bracelet and held up the combative patient one. “Busted my nose Sherlock. This goes on until you’ve proven you’ll not go after someone else.”

Sherlock sulked but held out his arm. He tried to see John, but could not. 

Murray stepped away to speak with John’s team. John was pale and sunken in the bed, but not as terrible as Mark had anticipated. His neck was heavily bandaged, and he had a bag of blood running into him among several others. Billings was brought in to do the surgery and ran Murray through what all had happened. He gave Murray the printout of the last scan after they had removed the calcium and watched as the team finished getting John into place. 

He made sure he understood everything before the team left. He moved over to Mark as the last of them filed out. 

Sherlock reached out and wrapped his hand around Mark’s startling the doctor. He smiled down to Sherlock, “It’s alright. Okay?” Sherlock looked lost and Mark seriously considered dropping him all the way down. He’d wait, see how he reacted to the news.

Sherlock just watched John. Mark squeezed his hand reassuringly as Sherlock stared at John, a million things running through his mind.

Murray cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Mark before speaking very softly to Sherlock, keeping his voice slow and calm. “They got several clots out of him, Sherlock, and Billings is certain they got them all. One at the speech center helps explain the language issue again. He had them at all the major bleed sights.” 

He paused to watch and make sure Sherlock wasn’t about to slide away from them. “He’s just not responding much at the moment, hasn’t wanted to take over his own breathing yet. Billings said there was a lot of irritation to several areas and he was just overall under a fair bit of stress. It’s entirely possible he just needs time to rest up a bit.”

Mark said nothing, just kept his hand in Sherlock’s. He really didn’t want to put the man down. Murray hadn’t seen Sherlock screaming in that very bed, Molly Hooper in his lap screaming back at him to stop it before they could finally get him snapped out of it.

Sherlock took a deep breath. His voice carried across the room, voice shy of cracking and so full of emotion that it took Mark off guard. “John Hamish Watson. You listen to me. You bloody well start breathing and you come back to me. I mean it. You come back to me.”

Murray looked to Mark before he looked back at John. “Just give him some time, Sherlock, give him a little time.” Murray had been planning on going back home, but he was not at all keen to leave Mark on his own and he really did want to see John out of this, if he came out. 

“Just relax, Sherlock, give it time.”

Sherlock looked up to Murray as if he were stupid. “Of course it’s going to take time. He had clots all in his brain. Doesn't mean I can’t remind him that I love him and that I damn well want him back. I just got him back. You don’t understand. Two years. Two years and then eighteen months and I've had a couple weeks. Most of it in this very room.” 

He swore at Murray in Gaelic and Mark squeezed his hand. “Sherlock, don’t drop into that. Come on. Don’t make me use the drugs.” Sherlock just started at Murray, still muttering under his breath in Gaelic.

“Right, okay then.”

Murray nodded and moved to John’s side, letting Mark handle Sherlock. He shifted some of John’s lines and leaned in low while Sherlock was distracted, “Mate, gotta wake up.” With a sigh he stepped back and settled into a chair that would keep him from Sherlock’s view for the most part. 

Mark shook his head as Sherlock teared up. When he tried to get out of the bed Mark pushed him down hard. “Patient, your bed. Not his. Not with all that tubing. Sherlock you can’t, you could kill him. Okay?” Sherlock dissolved into silent sobs. Mark took the drug from his pocket and pushed it slowly, tears stinging his own eyes. 

When Sherlock was out Mark disposed of the syringe in the sharps box before collapsing in the recliner. “Be the death of me, these two.”

Murray nodded and hummed his agreement, “Need a bit of distance, Mark, got in very close, didn’t you?” He shook his head and pointed to John, “I like this fellow a lot, I really do, but I’d be able to sleep tonight if it went south. Don’t forget yourself, it’ll kill you.” 

He shook his head and turned his attention back to John, watching the monitors closely. “This will be a TBI for the books, I damn well know that. Christ. And he was what? Running about London with his egg scrambled and a bullet in his foot?”

Mark cleared his throat. “I was never a combat doctor. I don’t have the nerve or the will. You weren’t here and didn’t go through this with them, with Greg, Molly, with Sherlock’s brother trying to rip them apart. Been doing this for years. Never had a case suck me in like this. His fucking brother…” Mark shook his head and took a deep breath.

“Head in that shape, running around London, found Sherlock, got him mostly detoxed. Then it went bad. He- it was bad. Eventually we pulled him off the roof. Well, Greg did… Right off the fucking edge, same spot Sherlock jumped from. From there into surgery.”

Murray held up his hand and nodded, “Wasn’t making a go at you, Mark, just a reminder from one doc to another. It’s a nightmare to be sure. If they have people, should we not call them? Maybe a familiar face will at least help that one,” he nodded to Sherlock, “I’d rather not have him go sideways on us, yeah? He’s dangerous.” 

Mark sighed, “Sorry. This has been. Well, hell, I don’t know _what_ this has been.” He nodded and pulled out his phone. He took a deep breath and called Greg. He closed his eyes as he waited for the answer. When Greg came on the line, Mark quickly outlined the situation. Greg swore a blue streak and finally hung up, promising he would be there.

Mark stared at the door, waiting.

Murray let him sit in silence for the better part of twenty minutes before speaking again. “This is all incredibly unorthodox. Why don’t you go home? I can walk his family though what’s gone on if you like. I’m not sure how they are getting away with keeping John out of the ICU here, but I do know that I’ve got a doctor at my side that’s incredibly affected by all this. Are you sound to treat, Mark?” He wasn’t being hostile, just blunt and openly concerned. 

Mark smiled as Molly came in the door. “She is who I was waiting on.” She smiled apologetically. “Up to my elbows in a river victim. Took a bit to finish and wash off.” She looked to Murray and back to Mark. Mark stood. “Greg filled you in, yeah?” She nodded. 

Mark shook his head, “I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to have some sleep. Sherlock’s down. I need a bit of distance, a night at home. Come back tomorrow. I can’t treat them tonight. That’s Murray. He’s the one who got John here in time. Things are up in the air. Sherlock is not handling it well. Murray, if Sherlock loses it, Molly here is who you need to have. I’ve got someone on call for me if Sherlock needs it. But really if he’s combative he needs put back down and restraints.” He was exhausted. Molly reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“Go home Mark. Go home. Thank you.” 

He nodded a bit and looked to Murray, “You’re right. I can’t do this tonight. I’ll be okay after some rest.”

Murray was on his feet, patting Mark warmly on the shoulder, “Good man, go have a rest,” before moving over to Molly. He extended his hand and smiled at her, “Molly, I’m doctor Murray, just Murray though, everyone just uses that.” He sized her up for a moment, at first skeptical that she’d be able to do much by way of controlling Sherlock, deciding after a moment that he took the thought back. She was gentle, but there was a very clear undercurrent of something below the surface. 

“John’s been out of surgery about half an hour.”

Mark slipped out, leaving the two to get to know one another. Molly smiled brightly as she shook his hand. “I’m Molly Hooper. I deal with dead people all day. Once saw Sherlock crop a corpse… Probably not the strangest thing I’ve seen him do actually.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I lived with Sherlock a bit. Damaged my filter.”

He had too. Molly and Sherlock had shared her tiny flat for nearly a month off and on before he disappeared for good to take down the web. That’s when everything shifted for her. 

Murray arched a brow but kept his posture friendly and just went with it. “Well, Sherlock has bloodied Mark and taken him to ground today, and John here has died and is currently not breathing on his own. So, that’s what you’ve come in on, I’m terribly sorry to say.” He shook his head at her and turned to look over John once more, glad the man was down but wishing very much that he was at least helping the vent. 

Molly moved to John’s side. She stroked fingers over his hand. “John, I’ve got Sherlock. You concentrate on helping that nasty machine out, yeah? I’ll not have you in my office anytime soon. It’s closed to you.” She tenderly brushed back a piece of overly long hair from his brow. Molly watched him for a few more minutes before patting his hand and moving to Sherlock.

Molly shook her head. “You. Behave. I’m here now. None of this bloodying people. I’ll have Toby to the flat and lounging about on every suit you own.” She settled down on a chair, hand tucking into Sherlock’s. He shifted and very briefly squeezed her fingers before dropping back out completely.

Murray raised his eyebrows at her and nodded, accepting the situation, deciding he was going to be the one watching the lot of them. He had privileges at Bart’s, though he hardly ever used them. He settled in beside John and let the time pass as it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill us.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery begins...

Greg arrived an hour later, apologetic to Molly. He eyed Murray suspiciously. “You one of Mycroft’s?” He narrowed his eyes at the man. Molly huffed at him and smacked him in the stomach. Greg looked down at her, “Oi!” It was soft though. She shook her head at him.

Murray just smiled at him and stood up, walking over and offering his hand. “Murray, Neurologist, former trauma doc, served with John a few times. Not here on anyone’s request other than John’s. Take it you’re Greg?” 

Greg shook his hand visibly relieved, “Sorry. Yeah, Greg… Sherlock’s brother has been a prat.” Molly snorted as though that were the understatement of the year. “Any change at all? Know it’s soon to be asking but…” He shrugged.

Murray shook his head and looked over to Molly before returning his focus to Greg. “Nothing. Sherlock is sedated and John’s… tenuous. Just waiting game at this point. You work at the Yard then?” 

Greg nodded, “Detective Inspector. Put more than one murderer away because of Sherlock and John. Nothing to do but wait then?” Greg looked between the men he still considered friends. “Sherlock will go if John does… It’ll be a matter of time.”

Molly looked up sharply and Greg shrugged, “You know it as well as I do. Don’t give me that look.”

“Well, I’m in the business of keeping bodies alive and brains functioning. John’s stopped on me before, I’ve managed to drag him through. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I understand this has been a rough go for all of you. We just wait. There is nothing more we can do for John, so Sherlock is your focus, yeah?” 

Murray kept his tone gentle and calm, more than accustomed to panic and chaos. He watched Greg and Molly, glad that Sherlock had people there.

“My focus is both of them. They’ve both tried to kill me. I’m still here. I don’t have the medical knowledge to do a damn thing for John other than tell him I’m here. But I can cuff Sherlock to the bed and tell him to stuff it if needed.” He gave a small smile. Molly muttered under her breath.

“Okay,” Murray said as he brushed his palms together, “You lot are all a bit… right. Well, I’ll be right here if you need me. I suggest you just settle in if you plan to stay, I’m not expecting a change tonight. Sherlock should be down another two hours and we will play it by ear from there. I’m always open to your suggestions, I don’t know the fellow.”

He took his chair back beside John and settled back in as he had been, keeping an eye on the monitors, watching the clock. 

Greg grinned at Murray, “Might ought to run… We get more complicated the deeper you dig.” This earned him another smack from Molly. Greg shrugged and settled in. “Well, you used to be head over arse for-” She punched him in the arm. “Say another word and you’re sleeping on the sofa and Toby can have your spot. We won’t talk about your past, yeah?”

Greg made a face at her and folded his arm across his chest. He leaned back, sprawling out in the chair, getting comfortable. He’d see how Sherlock was when he came to. He and Molly wound up dozing against one another after a while

\---

Murray was standing at the side of John’s bed, watching the meter on the vent closely at the close of the following two hours. He had a hand to John’s wrist, an old habit he’d yet to break, watching the feeds as the other occupants in the room dozed. 

“Let’s go, Watson, give me another,” he said softly, watching the double zeros staring up at him from the machine breathing for John, shaking his wrist gently to try and get a reaction from him. 

Sherlock came awake slowly. He looked around the room. A smile found his lips when he saw Molly and Greg dozing against one another. His voice was soft, “How is he Murray?”

“Being lazy,” Murray answered without looking away from John, letting go of the man’s wrist to rub at John’s chest with the heel of his hand, trying to get him up, “Come on, Watson, I saw you do it,” he said gently, pressing a few buttons to ensure the settings were all correct. 

Sherlock spoke again, addressing John. “You listen to him, John. Come on. Breathe. Don’t be an idiot.” Greg peered up at Sherlock. He didn’t speak, just watched. Sherlock repeated the words in Pashto, hand curling around the rail. 

Murray paused and held his hand still over John’s chest, watching him closely, willing for his typical irritable nature when sick to surface and make him angry. John simply lay there as he had been, unresponsive. Murray sighed and shook his head, “Too soon, give it time.” 

He turned back to Sherlock and swept his eyes over him. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock watched John for a minute before looking back up to Murray, “Like I’ve been drugged heavily and my heart’s been ripped out of my chest. Before now I wasn’t entirely sure I had that metaphorical thing.”

Greg huffed, “Shut it. You moved in with him less than twenty-four after meeting him. I don’t want to hear it. No time for that rubbish.”

For the first time in a long while, Murray actually startled. His focus had been on the bantering men when there was a sudden flurry of movement from John’s bed, monitors going from quiet to singing. He moved over and began silencing them as the rhythmic sound of the vent was disrupted, John abruptly not only assisting, but harshly combating with the thing, bound hands curled tight in the sheets, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

“John,” Murray called out as he grabbed a penlight and lifted an eyelid, flipping the light across and watching John react violently to the motion, legs pedaling against the mattress in an effort to get away from him. “John, settle down, you’re alight,” Murray said calmly as he watched the man, utterly stunned by his sudden rise in consciousness. 

Sherlock looked up from Greg, “John, love, calm down. We’re here. It’s okay. It’s alright. Please… I’m here.”

Greg elbowed Molly awake gently and she dropped the rail on Sherlock’s bed. She put herself on the edge, sitting, a hand on his chest. “Wait.” She looked up at Murray, waiting to see what happened.

Murray frowned as John failed to respond to him, starting to wonder if this was just a reaction of John’s body and not much more than his brain stem. “Got your legs, Sherlock?” He asked as he debated just sedating John, who was currently struggling like hell which was not at all good for his brain, “Come see if he reacts to you before I knock him down. Don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

Molly moved and let Sherlock up. He wavered a moment and Greg shoved the chair to beside the bed. Sherlock sat in it and took John’s hand in his, squeezing gently. “I have you, John. I’m right here, right by your side. St. Bart’s, London, don’t fight the machine so hard, okay? Try to relax for me.”

Murray muttered under his breath, “Got to be kidding,” as John stilled, still wrestling with the vent obviously, but the straining of his muscles and the desperate twisting of his hands had stopped. “Christ, John Watson can you hear me?” 

John, for his part, was in hell. Everything hurt and he could not properly breathe. Sherlock was talking to him though, and that’s all that mattered. Pain meant alive, and alive meant Sherlock, and that was all he needed to know. He went lax, putting his focus on the hand Sherlock held, turning it palm up to catch Sherlock’s fingers. 

He nodded at Murray, and Murray wished he was filming this. 

“Jesus you two,” he murmured as he walked over to the vent and put the settings to assist, not force. “Keep breathing for me John and I’ll stop the machine for you.” 

John whimpered, but the sound was lost with the tube blocking his chords, trying to reach for Sherlock despite the restraints. 

Sherlock was back on his feet, one hand tangling with the one John had turned up. The other trailed along his jaw. Sherlock leaned over, lips along John’s brow. “I’ve got you, not going to let you fall. I promised.” He rested his forehead against John’s tenderly. “I love you.” He squeezed John’s hand gently.

Murray watched John trying to breathe and decided that this was exactly enough. If he bent sideways Murray could just drop another tube. He killed the vent and disconnected it, keeping a sharp eye as he began to gather a few things to pull the tube. “Keep breathing, John,” he warned. 

John had tears freely running down the sides of his face, heavily in pain, panting at the loss of the vent. It was freeing, but breathing was a bit harder than he’d thought it would be. He had yet to brave opening his eyes, just holding as tight as he could to Sherlock. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, holding John, “Just breathe, John. Breathe for us.” Molly had a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as she stood behind him, Greg’s hand tucked into her other one. Sherlock just kept pressure on John’s hand. “Just keep breathing for us.”

Murray had the tube out in the next minute, watching as John coughed and sputtered, pressing an oxygen mask over his face and glancing at the time for the chart. He freed John’s hands and watched as the man went to pull the mask away in his effort to get enough air. “John, focus,” he said calmly, going to his side at the head of the bed, glancing over at the Ambu bag at his side just in case. 

“Slow down, you’re alright,” he said gently, patting John over his shoulder. 

John was making rough, broken sounds with the tube gone, reaching out for Sherlock, trying to calm down. 

Sherlock dropped the rail, daring Murray to say something with his every movement. Sherlock was pressed to John on the edge of the bed, navigating wires and IV easily after all the practice. He tucked his face to John’s shoulder, arm gently around his waist. “Breathe slow, easy, John. I’m here. I have you.”

John dropped his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the crown of Sherlock’s head, whimpering as he tried to comply. He tried to speak, lips moving without managing to create much by way of sound, and Murray had enough. 

“Budge up, Sherlock, oi don’t glare just sit there for a moment,” he instructed, pulling the mask away from John’s face, replacing it with the bag. “John, going to do this for you, don’t fight with me, try and match,” he said with a calm, even tone, starting to squeeze a breath into John. 

John tried to back away from the mask over his nose and mouth, air demanding its way into his lungs, Murray’s massive fingers locking his chin up and tilting his head in a way that forced the breath down. He groaned as his fingers splayed, wishing he had the energy to escape this. 

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, “Come on, John. Relax, please.” He drew John’s hand up and kissed it. Molly and Greg were quiet, just waiting to see how it played out. Sherlock pressed a few more gentle kisses to John’s hand, trying to soothe him down.

Murray was patient with him until John wrapped a hand around his wrist, trying to prize Murray off of him. He looked up to Molly then, still slowly squeezing breaths into John at a better pace, “Ms. Hooper, will you please go fetch me a nurse?” 

John’s entire focus had shifted to dislodging the thing on his face, aching and wanting to free himself. He could not catch his breath long enough to speak, trying now to turn his face away. 

Molly was gone, off to fetch a nurse. Sherlock tried to calm John down. “Please don’t fight this. Calm down? For me? Please, John.”

Molly was only gone a minute, coming back, trailing a nurse behind her.

Sherlock kept trying to soothe John. Molly sank a hand into Sherlock’s curls when she noticed him becoming agitated. “You breathe Sherlock.” She tugged lightly on his curls and he relaxed some again.

Murray asked the nurse to start pushing a sedative and John’s reaction was abrupt and acute. He shouted into the mask as much as he could manage, trying to twist away from them all. He was too late, however, sagging down slowly as the nurse pushed the drugs. 

A few minutes later, he’d given up the struggle against Murray, breathing slow and deep in the way the man was making him with the bag, his fingers limp at his sides, tears sliding over his cheeks. 

Murray tentatively took the bag mask away, pulling the free flowing one back in place, watching closely. 

John was nearly sobbing, begging them all to stop in English and Pashto alike, his voice weak, hardly audible over the hiss of oxygen, calling sadly for Sherlock. 

Sherlock very nearly went across the bed after Murray. It flashed in every part of his body. The want and the need to protect John from him. Sherlock was barely hanging on. Only John’s voice saying his name in a barely heard voice dragged him back from that edge. 

Sherlock tucked his head down, moving John’s hand so it sank into his curls. “I have you. You have me. I have not gone anywhere.” Sherlock’s voice was strong, drawing on the anger he had. Murray was the target at the moment. Part of Sherlock knew he was helping, but the larger part of him wanted to shred the man for hurting John. Molly arched a brow. She shook her head. She mouthed, _sedate him now_.

Murray looked at Molly with an arched brow and simply took a step back from Sherlock and John. He’d seen the rising hostility, knew Sherlock was focused on him, and simply removed himself from Sherlock’s line of sight with a finger held up to Molly. The room was quiet enough that only John’s honestly pathetic sobs could be heard, echoing in the mask. 

John sank his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and wrapped around him, tugging at Sherlock with both his hand in Sherlock’s hair and the other on Sherlock’s arm, slurring his Pashto so hard Murray was having trouble understanding it. “Hurts… it… Sherlock don’t leave,” he was whispering, pleading with Sherlock. Murray caught that John was in pain, swiftly drawing up morphine and moving in just close enough to push it, a critical eye on John’s vitals as he did so. 

Sherlock moved up again, stretching out along John. He snuggled back in, slim frame fitting on the bed just barely. Sherlock nuzzled John’s shoulder, arm back around his waist and one leg tucked carefully over John’s. 

His Pashto was soft, “I’m not going anywhere. Hospital bracelet says I‘m not allowed to. I’m afraid you are quite stuck with me.”

John was just crying as he turned his face and blinked his eyes open, worried like hell as it slowly registered that Sherlock had been admitted. He stared at Sherlock and touched his face with a shaking hand, “No,” he whispered, pushing himself up in effort to get a proper look at him, misunderstanding, “please, no, what… god no you said…” his breathing caught as Murray reached out a hand to press him back down, warning him not to try that again just yet. 

Sherlock blinked, “I’m fine… I just- I elbowed Mark in the nose in an effort to get to a nurse. They knocked me out for a while, decided I’d be best admitted for a bit. Voluntary, completely. I agreed.”

John closed his eyes and sank back down into the bed, his efforts at breathing making his chest hitch, each inhalation catching like gears in his ribs. He started talking to Sherlock in swift Pashto, too fast and slurred for any of it to make any sense, his grip slackening as he passed right out on them. 

Murray swore and moved to the other side of the bed, “Sherlock, out of the bed if you please,” he said calmly, hitting the button to make John’s blood pressure cuff inflate while he tore the mask off and replaced it once again with the bag, angling John’s chin up and taking over his breathing for him while he pegged down what was going on. 

“He’s okay, Sherlock, give it a minute,” he murmured softly to the man, his eyes sharp on the monitors as he started talking again, “John, open your eyes for me,” he called out, both English and Pashto one after the other, getting no response. He repeated the command, louder, as the cuff deflated showing John’s pressures way, way down. Murray cursed under his breath as his eyes flicked up swiftly to the only other person in the room he thought capable of taking Sherlock to the floor should the need arise. “Molly, please go get me the nurse again.” 

Sherlock was on his feet, pacing by the bed as Molly flew out of the room once more. Greg gently put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock, get back in bed, yeah? Let them figure out what’s going on.” Greg very nearly flinched back when Sherlock spun on him, even when Sherlock had come at him and cut him, he’d never seen the man quite like that. Greg took in a deep breath. “Sherlock, please. Don’t do this to me again.”

Sherlock deflated after a minute and crawled back into his bed, “Sedative, please, mild… D-don’t knock me out. But I- I can’t watch like this.” His body felt like it was on fire and he wanted to rip someone apart with his bare hands every time something went wrong with John.

Molly and the nurse returned and Molly climbed up into the bed with Sherlock. She sat humming softly to him, hands running through his curls. He snarked at her for ruining a perfectly good Rachmaninov number. She shushed him with a sharp tug to a curl.

Murray sent the nurse over to put Sherlock down enough that he wouldn’t be much aware of what was happening, his eyes on John’s monitors, hand rhythmically pacing John, who was still breathing with him on his own. 

When she came back, he had her draw labs and flood his supporting fluids wide open. He continued to call out to John, trying to rouse him back again, willing to let him sleep if he would at least be responsive. It was easier with Sherlock dropped down, in no mood for a bodily threat while he was trying to get sodding Watson back up. 

He was steady and calm as they worked at John. Finally Murray decided to put John on a pressurised mask, having the nurse hook John back to the vent without intubating him again. He stepped away and moved to the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching John critically for a few minutes. He finally addressed Molly and Greg without looking away. “He’s holding his own airway and he’s still breathing on his own, it’s just a lot of work for him right now. I’m going to let him alone a few hours and see what happens. If this is his brain, there’s truly very little to be done at this point. He just needs to heal.” 

Molly did not speak, just nodded. She scrubbed a tear away with the back of her hand through as Sherlock murmured at her in Gaelic, much further down than he’d intended them to put him. She shushed him gently and kept at his hair. Greg nodded, “Right. We’ll wait then. Molls, Murray, either of you want coffee? Food?” He patted his pocket absentmindedly. He hadn’t smoked in years, but he’d bought a pack last week. Molly’d caught him on the front steps at three a.m. and made him promise he’d stop again when Sherlock and John were better.

Molly hummed, “Just a water, please… and go up to the roof. Least likely to get yelled at up there for it.”

Murray asked for a coffee, watching Molly for a moment as he stepped back away from John’s bed. His focus moved over to Sherlock, nodding. “Sorry about him. He’s dangerous. I need to focus on John and Sherlock there is obviously suffering. It’s better for him this way.” 

He settled down in a chair and folded his hands over his lap, keeping an eye on John. “Came up incredibly fast. I probably should have left his tube and sedated him. Ah, well. He’ll come round.” 

Greg slipped out and headed straight for the roof. He felt like smoking the entire damn pack. Molly watched Murray, voice low, the undercurrent he’d seen in her pushing to the surface. She kept her hands gentle on Sherlock as she spoke, “Let’s get one thing straight, there is no ‘ah, well’ when it comes to either of these two. I understand that you are a doctor and certain amount of restraint and distance is required of you to keep your head. But do not lose sight of the fact that these two men have been through things the majority of people cannot imagine… and that they’ve dragged the rest of us along with them. We’re still here because of how much we love them. You’re a good doctor, damn good obviously. John probably wouldn’t still be able to fight without you. But _please_ , they’re the only family I have.”

She soothed Sherlock as he fought the medicine, sensing her distress. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Shh, I have you, John’s resting, you should too.”

Murray did not move as Molly spoke, letting her have her say. He let the silence hang for a little while, allowing Sherlock to settle and Molly to catch her composure. After a few minutes he spoke, softly, openly to her. 

“Molly, I’ve pulled John out of a lot. I’m here on my own, I’m not on the clock. I will never be emotionally invested as you are, of course, but I assure you I will not be satisfied with anything less than a favorable outcome for them both. There is a lot of stress here, and I have the best ability out of the lot to keep things as light as possible. Please do not mistake my nature as indifference, it’s far from it.” He kept his eyes on her, his expression gentle and open. “Now, can I get _you_ anything?” 

She laughed quietly, “Bottle of scotch? Enough drugs to knock _me_ out?” She kept moving her hands through Sherlock’s hair. “It has been… hell. Just utter, hell, with these two. I was one of two people who knew Sherlock was alive. Had to watch John go back to Afghanistan. _Idiot_. Begging Sherlock to come home and stop him the whole time. I’m a little defensive of them. I- Mark caught the brunt of it last time. I’m sorry. Thank you for being here.”

Murray held up a finger as he stood and went to the door, calling softly for a nurse, leaving her standing at the door watching John while he disappeared. He was gone less than five minutes, returning with clear soda in his hand, thanking the nurse and sending her off. He walked over to Molly with a wink, pushed a chair under her, and grabbed a styrofoam cup, pouring the soda in first and then plucking Mark’s hidden scotch from inside his coat, tipping her a generous measure and swirling it about. 

“You’ve no need to apologize. If you need to target your anger, I make a broad sounding board. No offense taken at all. This lot here… lucky to have you.” 

He capped the scotch and showed her the little cabinet in the room he was storing it, making a note to buy Mark another, poor bastard. 

John’s vent blipped at him and he walked over, plucking a penlight from his pocket and leaning over John, the hiss and pull of the C-PAP loud and unpleasant. He’d always hated them. Murray raised one of John’s eyelids and flicked the light across the pupil, letting it go and dropping his hand to John’s chest, the flat of his palm rubbing him vigorously. He did not call his name, just wanting to see if the stimuli would make John alter his breathing again. 

He sighed as he failed to get a response, moving to sit back down in the chair he’d been in earlier. 

Molly shook her head and sipped at the glass, a small sigh coming from her as she did. “They’re… idiots. Just, idiots. Both of them. In love with one another from day one. John all ‘I’m not _actually_ gay you know!’ and Sherlock huffing around ‘married to my work’. Oblivious to anyone hitting on him… or asking him out for coffee.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I think I’m angrier at the both of them than anyone else.”

Murray laughed softly at that, holding up a hand and shaking his head to pacify her, “I’m sorry, not you. Just… Watson here… _Three Continents Watson_ here was as straight as they came. Shocked me to no end to see him paired up with another bloke. No idea if that helps, but I’ve spent a _lot_ of years with that man, under extreme conditions, and I would have put my hand on every religious text in existence to attest his heterosexual nature.” He looked at John, a warm, amused smile on his face. “Remarkable, really.” 

He took a deep breath and looked over to Sherlock, shaking his head, “That case with him, just incredible. Never thought we’d hear about Sherlock Holmes again. Honestly, Molly, if I can speak freely here?” 

Molly nodded, “I’ve likely heard it all. He’s made me promise not to tell anyone how we pulled it off though. Something about waiting until the interviews are done. That stupid bit-” She cleared her throat. “Kitty Riley wants an exclusive. Threatened them again apparently, John was a bit off… She’s threatened him.” Molly shook her head, “Speak freely, I really probably have heard it.”

Murray frowned, bristling slightly with mention of some idiot reporter trying to threaten these men, of all people. He shook it off, looking back to John. “I was only going to say...I’ve fought with a lot of men, Molly, a lot of them. Good, strong men, and women, all able to roll with the worst war can toss out. A good half of them are gone now, their own hands, their own methods.” He looked back to Molly, completely serious, calm and steady. 

“If he loved that man, and put all his cards in Sherlock’s hands, and thought Sherlock dead and gone… well… Afghanistan was probably what kept him alive.” 

Molly nodded, “I’m sure it was. When Sherlock came back and we thought John was dead.” She shook her head. “Greg would find him every once in a while. Drag him out of whatever drug hole he was in… He’d come home just looking wrecked.” She took another drink. “Used to be, oh what did Greg say? Head over arse… Yeah that would about sum it up. Sherlock. Amazed me. He’s beautiful, cold, fascinating.” She laughed softly. “Oblivious to it all. Until John.” 

Murray shook his head with a gentle smile, “Well, he’s sorted it now.” He folded his hands over his lap and leaned back, hitching an ankle over his knee, setting his focus back to John. “Now we wait, and hell, if you are they praying sort, you pray. Let’s hope he’s sighted when he wakes up, that would be a huge plus after all of this.” 

“I hope so. God, I hope so.” Greg wandered back in. He’d walked down and bought Murray a decent cup of coffee instead of the awful stuff they kept here and there in the hospital. He sipped at his own. “Figured you probably take your coffee black.” He handed it over and crossed to sit beside Molly. He sniffed her cup and arched a brow, “Am I going to have to take you in for public intoxication?” She grinned, “Don’t start with me. I’ll embarrass you by talking about your handcuffs.”

Greg cleared his throat and took a drink of his coffee.

Murray pretended that he’d not heard that while he sipped at his coffee, thanking Greg for going out of his way to get them a decent cup. He looked at the clock, sighing. Half five in the morning. “Listen, there is a room across the hall. You two can go have a rest if you like, or, of course, you can leave the hospital and I’ll ring you if there is a change. I understand you all have had a hell of a go with these two. I can handle Sherlock.” 

Molly looked up at him. “And what about you? Going to need rest yourself. Promise you’ll get some when Mark comes back around?” Her tone had dropped into that mom zone, the one that bent most everyone to it. She looked at him as if she dared him to argue with her. Greg looked up and then sipped his coffee, nope, not in the middle of that.

Murray smiled at her, shaking his head. “Yes ma’am, I’ll hit the rack when relieved of my post.” He winked at her, completely at ease, not yet tired. He had no need to argue with her though, and would gladly go home when Mark returned to take up watch. He waved them off, “Go, take care of yourselves. Sherlock gets hostile and I’d really rather the good DI here not catch it again. Sherlock can have a go at me as often as he likes. Are you leaving the hospital?” 

She shook her head, “No, we’ll head downstairs. Nice set up in the morgue, well the office of the morgue. Drag him down there and get some sleep. Mike will be on shift down there. Call him if you need one or the other of us.” Greg pushed to his feet, pulling Molly with him.

He spoke softly, hand dropping to Murray’s shoulder as he passed, “Thank you. Might be saner without these two… but life would be really boring.” He squeezed and stepped on through. Molly smiled, “Just call if you need us. Thanks Murray.” She followed Greg out, leaving Murray to watch her boys.

Murray nodded at them and settled in to keep watch, moving over so that he had a good view of both Sherlock and John’s monitors. The next few hours passed without incident, Murray himself running scheduled vitals so that no one else needed to come in, keeping the disturbances to a minimum. He ran the last check at half nine, going back to settle in, thumbing through his mobile to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more real chapter guys. Then a sweet/smut filled epilogue.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally settle

Mark finally came in at fifteen past ten, apologizing. He held up a bag from a well-known bakery. “Come bearing gifts though. Slept right through both alarms I set.” He ran his eyes over Sherlock and John, “Off the tube then and Sherlock’s sedated?” Sherlock let out a mutter and pulled the pillow over his head, “Coming out of sedation then. How bad?”

He settled into a chair near Murray and started unpacking the bag onto one of the trays, putting it between them. Fresh doughnuts and coffee came out along with two small bottles of milk. “Can’t eat them without milk myself, didn’t know about you, so grabbed it. Have to cut the sweet with it.”

Murray tapped the thrice refilled coffee in his hand and nodded to Mark in thanks. “Well, John came up like a shot about three hours after surgery, pretty confused, lot of pain. He was fighting the tube like hell and doing a good job of breathing on his own, so I pulled it. I didn’t want to sedate him again, not with so much compromised in his brain, but I should have. Ended up having to bag him, went with the C-PAP just to get him resting again. He’s unresponsive. I don’t know what to expect here, can’t rouse him with anything. Not good. Sherlock asked to be sedated after nearly having a go at that DI. I put him down harder than he wanted. I don’t tolerate threats. I’d rather not remove him, but I’ll not play games with him either.” 

He picked up a doughnut and bit into it, arching a brow at Mark. “Got a bit of a shiner there,” he said rudely around the bite, smiling at Mark, eyes on the smudge of bruising that licked up the right side of his face from his nose to the corner of the man’s eye, sliding down slightly under the lower lid. 

Mark grinned as he snagged a doughnut. “Earned it too. Sherlock’s stronger and rather more dangerous than he looks. Don’t blame you for putting him down hard. Glad that he asked for it though. Shows he’s actually thinking.” 

Sherlock tossed his pillow in their general direction, only managing to land it in the floor between the beds, voice a low drawl, “I am capable of hearing. Do shut up… or at least give me coffee and a doughnut since I can smell them?”

Mark couldn’t help the low chuckle. He grabbed a doughnut and surrendered his untouched coffee to the grumpy man. He set up the other tray for him. “Anything if you’re actually volunteering to eat.” Sherlock nodded and looked to John. His jaw worked for a moment but he tucked into the doughnut and coffee, trying to get his head on straight before he attempted anything.

Mark settled back in with Murray. “Right, well, we’ll just have to see. If Sherlock can _behave_ we’ll set him up next to the bed, let him talk to John. It’s been a bit, uh, strange, how well they pull each other out.”

Murray nodded at that, “Yeah, noticed that. This one is going to make for an interesting journal entry, I’ll tell you that much. The linguistic edge is a marvel in and of itself, but Christ is John reactionary to Sherlock.” 

He shook his head and tapped his lip before patting Mark on the shoulder and going out in search of coffee for Mark, leaving the men on their own for the moment. 

Mark looked over Sherlock, “You get done with that, you shower. You brought that duffel so use whatever clothes you brought. I’ll see about cleaning up what you’re wearing now or swinging by to pick some clothes up for you, okay?”

Sherlock nodded as he listened. He finished the doughnut and sipped at the coffee Mark had handed over. He slid out of the bed after a few minutes and dragged the duffel with him, sulking the entire way. Mark hoped he’d snap out of it in the shower. Sherlock could out sulk a three-year-old in a strop.

Murray was back shortly with a new cup in hand for Mark and his own refilled again. “I’ve got a few more hours in me. I’m going to stick with you long enough to ensure Sherlock there is going to play nicely with you.” 

He handed over the cup and sat down beside Mark, looking over John again. “Shit,” he groused as he got right back up, walking over to unhook a bag and change it out, following the line down to the machine that was supposed to alert them when it ran dry. He reset everything, checking on all of John’s medications, worried over the blood thinner for a moment. He went ahead and ran John’s vitals while he was there, pointing at the pressures and talking to Mark, “Don’t like these,” he said in the absence of Sherlock, “he’s behaving as though he’s bleeding into his belly, which he clearly isn’t. He’s not on anything that would drop him like this, I can’t figure it out. I wish he would pull up for a bit, respond for me. Don’t like it.” 

Sherlock wandered out of the shower and went straight to John’s side. He’d put on a pair of pyjama trousers and that was it. Mark drew in a sharp breath looking at Sherlock’s abdomen. “Sherlock, who sewed you up?” He shook his head as he joined Murray and Sherlock. “Sherlock, need you to see if you can rouse John, okay? We’re not sure what’s going on and want to see if he can tell us anything. Something’s going on.”

Sherlock huffed, “I sewed me up, left handed.” His fingertips trailed down John’s arm before he wrapped his hand around John’s. “John, enough. Come on, come back to us. These two are worrying over you. Driving me quite mad really.” He drew John’s hand up and kissed it tenderly. “Please, John.”

Murray watched John closely, holding his breath without realizing it, wondering if the tactic would work again. He exhaled slowly after a minute without anything from the man in the bed. He shook his head and patted John on his chest, rubbing him roughly again, getting the heel of his hand into John’s sternum just shy of painful. 

John’s heart rate kicked up slightly at that and Murray nodded, “There’s a good man, come on Watson,” he mumbled under his breath, carrying on with the motion, glad for the upswing in his vitals. 

Sherlock leaned in close, whispering in John’s ear, words only for John, “If you don’t wake up and stop this nonsense right now, my mouth’s never coming near you again. I’ll keep my skills to myself and all the begging in the world will just not get you anywhere with me. I’ll walk around naked too, just to torture you.”

Mark arched a brow as Sherlock whispered words in John’s ear. After the makeout display he was pretty certain he was glad he couldn’t hear him.

Murray had his focus on John’s monitors, hearing the low baritone of Sherlock’s voice but not giving attention to the words. He stopped rubbing John’s chest and bent over him closer, flicking the light across John’s pupils again, frowning. “Watson, come on, Watson.” He called to John calmly, just wanting to get him up, even if was only for a moment. 

He picked up one of John’s hands and started rubbing hard at John’s palm, watching his fingers closely. He had an ear out for Sherlock, ready to take him right to the wall if he tried anything. John’s heart rate remained more elevated, but otherwise he failed to react. 

Sherlock muttered, switching to Pashto, “John Watson, if you don’t come back to me I will never forgive you. Wake up.” He laid his head on the rail. Mark put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Been through too much, John, please. Please wake up.”

Mark gently rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder, glad for the rest he’d had. He was more composed today, able to step back some from the situation.

Murray watched, and counted, and watched, a pang of sympathy for Sherlock as they stood there, trying to get John back up. “Good thing is he’s stable right now. We at least have stable,” he offered quietly, finally looking down at John again. “Oh,” he breathed, tilting his head to the side, watching as another tear rolled down the side of John’s face on Murray’s side of the bed. He’d clearly been tearing up for a few minutes, a little damp patch in his hair. “Watson? John? Come on up, Sherlock’s right here,” he called out, sticking to Pashto, his hand scrubbing over John’s chest. He looked over at Mark and nodded to the kit, “Might want to get morphine ready, he was in pain when he came up last and I’ve not given him any in nearly seven hours now.” 

Mark nodded, preparing for John to come up in pain. He drew a dose as Sherlock’s head came up. Sherlock continued speaking softly in Pashto. “I love you. Come on, there are cases to be solved and too much left undone between us. Come on, John. Please.”

His monitors blipped at Murray as John started wrestling with the pressurized air, altering his rhythm. Murray stepped back and eased the settings down, not wanting John wasting energy on struggling against machines. 

John was openly panting through parted lips, not yet making a sound, fingers twitching on the mattress. 

Murray crossed his arms over his chest and simply observed, letting Sherlock take the reins, knowing John responded well to him, typically. “Go on then, Sherlock, he’s trying, clearly.” 

Sherlock leaned up and was kissing across John’s forehead and at the corner of his eye, “Come on, love. You come back to me. You’ve been through too much to let this get you down. Come on. Stronger than this. Strongest man I know. I love you.” He kept speaking fervently, telling John how much he loved him, hand squeezing John’s.

Mark watched carefully, looking between the monitors and Murray before back to the pair again. Sherlock wasn’t frantic, just calm, words a bit of a rush, but full of feeling.

Murray shook his head and swore under his breath as John dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, his fingers curling tight in the bedding. Simply incredible. 

John, for his part, reached up and tore the mask away from his face, gritting his teeth with the incredible pain, clearly long overdue for pain medication. He tried to speak and failed, just setting in to breathing. 

Murray held a hand up to Mark, not wanting him to dose John until the man was well and truly up, responding. 

Mark held off, just watching the pair for the moment. Sherlock brushed his lips over John’s and tucked his forehead to John’s cheek, “God, please. I love you. So bloody strong.” Words were failing him, relief washing over him. John was still with them, “I’ve got you. Told you I wouldn’t let you fall. Promised. Still promise. Not going anywhere.”

John turned his face to Sherlock, hand moving through the air to grab hold of Sherlock’s bare arm. Murray nodded to Mark, moving in to adjust some of the lines John had disrupted. John groused at being touched by anyone other than Sherlock, licking his lip before growling, “Fucking _hurts_ ,” more angry than anything else, holding as tight as he could managed to Sherlock. 

Sherlock let out a small strangled sound, “Oh Christ. I love you.” Mark grabbed an alcohol swab and moved to give the morphine. “Have morphine for you, John. Giving it now. You’ve been worrying us. Sherlock’s driving us mad, not the other way around.” He smiled as he slowly pushed the drug. “Not a massive dose, going for killing the pain, not knocking you under again, tell me if it’s not enough though, okay?”

John’s hand moved away from Sherlock’s arm, sinking his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and tipping his face down to him, “I’m here, I love you,” he managed, rough and gravely, feeling like shit. 

He held tight to Sherlock, growling at Murray as the man started to examine him, uncharacteristically hostile while coherent, “Stop fucking touching me,” breath ruffling Sherlock’s curls, tense and defensive. 

Sherlock let out a soft whimper, tucking in closer to John. Mark looked astonished. Sherlock’s demeanor had shifted so rapidly and John was... “Christ, John, it’s just Murray. Couple of feral wolves you two. Hey… calm, yeah? You have Sherlock, you’re both safe.”

Sherlock was trying to get over the rail to John and Mark just dropped it. The slender man tucked in against John tightly. Mark shook his head. They defended each other against everything… even friendly people when they went down. A shrink would have a field day.

Murray frowned at John’s reaction, pulling his hands away slowly, watching him with a knitted brow. Watson had reacted in a lot of ways to waking from one or another procedure, but this was new. This was not a good time for new. He gave the men a minute, letting the morphine take the pain down a bit. 

John was pulling Sherlock to him, tucking Sherlock’s head under his chin, one hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other tight around his back, fingers sinking into the hair at the base of Sherlock’s head. John was slowly beginning to shake, a reaction to the drugs more than anything else, unafraid and aware. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered to him, tucking a leg over Sherlock’s, wrapping him in as close as he could, “are you alright, love?” His voice was rasping and rough, nearly unrecognizable, but John was present and aware. 

Sherlock was shaking, voice quiet, “Thought I’d really lost you. Couldn’t- had to sedate me more than once. Kept- I couldn’t.” He took in a shuddering breath. “I’m okay. God, yes I’m okay now.”

Mark watched, eyes darting up to Murray. He wondered if John’s reaction had everything to do with Sherlock and nothing else. Codependency didn’t even cover it. He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

John kept him tucked in close, petting his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, trying to settle him with as little energy expenditure as possible. He kept his eyes closed, worrying over Sherlock, tired and frustrated. 

“Murray,” he said after a few minutes, his tone wavering, “if you fucking try to bag me again I’m going to deck you.” John’s medical mind chastised him for it, but he didn’t really care. 

Murray laughed and shook his head, holding his hands up and stepping back, “At ease, Watson, I’ll leave off if you keep breathing, yeah?” He smirked over to Mark, his concern abating. 

Mark smiled and sat down in a chair, shaking his head. “Jesus, John. It’s good to have you back.”

Sherlock nuzzled John, shaking abating. His voice was stronger, more with it. “I love you.” His hand tucked around John’s hip. He held close as John kept him up next to him. Sherlock felt safe finally, felt like they were both safe.

John pet Sherlock’s hair, trying to soothe him, whispering softly that he loved him as well. “I’m falling asleep. I don’t recommend trying to shove anything in my bleeding airways,” he announced to the physicians, smirking at Murray’s chuckle behind him. He nuzzled Sherlock and tugged at his curls gently. He spoke softly, words only for Sherlock, “‘M tired, love, just going to sleep. I’m right here.” 

Sherlock nodded, “Not going anywhere, just going to rest here with you. Sleep, get better. I love you.” His voice was quiet, a low rumble in the room. He closed his eyes, just clinging to John.

Mark stood and laughed softly. “I’ll let you two be, going to go get some paperwork I need filled out. I’ll be right back, going to sit in with you, just observe a bit. Go to sleep.” He shook his head. The notes he’d written on this already. Hell of a case.

Murray moved over and put a hand on John’s shoulder, “Wait just a minute, John, do one thing for me and I’ll let you alone.” He watched with amusement as John’s shoulder flexed, fingers balling up as though he was ready to strike before exhaling and relaxing. “What, Murray? Tired.” 

Murray clicked on the dim overhead and walked over to kill the main lights, keeping out of John’s field of vision. “Tell us if you can see.” 

John sucked in a sharp breath, hands stilling on Sherlock, keeping his eyes closed tight. He was too afraid to try, not ready to know if the news was bad. Here in the intentional dark, he could pretend. 

Sherlock finally lifted his head. “John, please. Just look at me.” He watched John, worrying over him, fingers fretful against John’s hip. Mark watched, moving back, a hand gentle on Sherlock’s shoulder. He reached above the bed and killed the overhead. “Lights are down John, come on. Try for us.”

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek, “Please.”

John reached for Sherlock again, touching the side of his face, the contours of which were now tactile familiar. His thumb rested on Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone, fingertips in his hair. He licked his lip and, with his heart racing, blinked his eyes open in the dim room. He flinched back for a moment, even the lower level of light hurting before he adjusted. He dropped his eyes to where his fingers rest on Sherlock’s face, staring for a moment. 

“Hi,” he whispered, a slow smile touching his lips. It was blurry and with far less color, some due to the lights, some due to his injury, but he could see him. He leaned in as a tear slipped down his face and pressed their lips softly together, his heart rate slowing back down. When he drew back again, he kept his eyes locked to Sherlock, addressing Murray and Mark, “I can see him, could you give us a minute?”

Mark smiled, “Of course.” He waited on Murray by the door. Sherlock watched John, a smile on his face. His hand came up to touch John’s face. His thumb brushed away the tear track. “I love you so much.”

Murray slipped out with Mark, closing the door behind them, looking down at the doctor. “Well. Holy shit.” 

John stared at Sherlock like he’d never seen him before, blinking in the low light, head aching. “It worked,” he breathed, mostly to calm himself down, “it worked.” He swallowed and then fell into messy, faint laughter, relief and stress mixing together as tears stung his eyes. “I can’t believe it worked. We’re...it’s okay, we’re okay. Oh god,” he pulled at Sherlock, fingers skittering over his face, along the side of his neck, “I love you, I’m sorry you were so afraid, god I love you.” 

Sherlock was crying. He couldn’t stop touching John. “Don’t be sorry. It was worth it. John, oh god. You stroked out on me. Every place you bled had a clot. The medicine it... I don’t know, Murray knows details. They rushed you into surgery. Bloody well died on me. Fucking nurse. I bloodied Mark trying to get to him. Came in… anyways. He thought it was just medical personnel, didn’t know I was uh, family. So he wasn’t exactly tactful when he said ‘down on the table once’. I lost it.”

Sherlock looked down, shame racing through him. “Afraid I’ve been quite a bit of trouble. Threatened most everyone. Actually admitted me, been keeping me mostly sedated. I just- should have been being strong for you and just lost it. I didn’t run though. I stayed I did. I’m sorry.”

John swept his palms over Sherlock’s face, leaning in to gently kiss him, wishing he could better move his neck from all the bandaging. He trailed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and nuzzled the side of his face. “You didn’t run. That’s all I asked, for you not to run, and you’re right here. It’s okay, it’s all okay, you’ve done fine. I’m sorry they scared you.” 

John kept close to him as he put Sherlock’s words to the scattered memories he had. He remembered feeling like he was dying, saying goodbye to Sherlock as fast as he could make the words leave. There were blips of an ambulance ride and the bite of IV needles and then he lost everything until coming up fighting against the tube in his throat. 

“Stroke… Jesus… I knew something was wrong but I didn’t... didn’t think it was a stroke.” 

Sherlock pressed as close as he could. “I could never leave you. Never, not again. I will never leave you again. You are my world. The most precious thing I have. I will never leave you. Never again.”

He leaned in kissing John softly, trying to convey everything he felt that he couldn’t find words for. This was all he needed, John by his side..

John returned the kiss, gentle and slow, heavy with stress and overexertion. “I love you, Sherlock,” he whispered, closing his eyes again, relaxing down into the bed, keeping his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. He shivered as he began to slide down into sleep. “I just need to sleep, love. ‘M right here with you.” 

Sleep was grabbing at him faster than he could fight it off, dropping him hard away before he could hear Sherlock respond to him, his hands sliding away from Sherlock’s face, slowing his breathing and setting him boneless in the bed. 

Murray and Mark were leaned up on the nurse’s station when she mentioned that John’s vitals had a marked shift, setting Murray moving back to the room to investigate. 

Sherlock was tucked up against the sleeping John. His fingers tenderly working over his face. He was obviously relaxed as John slept. Mark came into the room on the heels of Murray, taking in the situation. Sherlock was murmuring softly to John in Gaelic and it took a moment for Mark to realize he was singing. The low baritone was soft, and Mark smiled as he leaned in the doorway.

Sherlock glanced up, never stopping in his gentle lullaby. His gaze went back to John, just taking him in, glad to have him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it guys. Posting the long epilogue next. Most of it is smut, but the very beginning of it should satisfy :)
> 
> Please stop by and drop Lovesfic some love for the amazing cover for MIA
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1089399


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get much needed relaxation, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of the chapter is all you need to read to get the general idea of yay happy fun times for our boys. The latter bits are a bunch of D/s give and take between the men including some very fluffy gift giving. There's a line break before the smut.
> 
> There is also NSFW art done by the brilliant [Risah (imrisah) on tumblr](http://imrisah.tumblr.com/). Click and go check out all the brilliant art!

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s hand, smiling at the stewardess as she handed over two glasses of wine, the takeoff announcement gentle over the speakers. He turned his face away from the small window to look at Sherlock. 

The last two months had gone by at a snail’s pace. A haze of physical therapy and medication shifts, stern visits from Molly, pints with Greg. John had been discharged from hospital ten days after coming out of surgery, an overly long stay as precaution, allowing the swelling to abate and his motor coordination to return enough that John could walk out on his own two feet. 

He and Sherlock had yet to make much progress between them. They ate together as always, slept together in the same bed, showered independent of the other while John was learning to make his limbs move in tandem, an occupational therapist at the flat daily. Mostly they’d slept in their free time, taking to a schedule that typically included no less than ten hours to rest. They each had years of sleep debt to account for. 

John had woken Sherlock on Christmas morning with a small box, two airline tickets to the south of France, and it was now the eve of a new year when they found themselves down to a single daily medication each and much recouperated. John leaned in and brushed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek as the plane began to taxi, squeezing his hand. 

Sherlock turned and kissed John softly, not satisfied with the kiss to the cheek. It wasn’t a flagrant display, just more than the cheek. He drew back and gazed at John. “I love you.” He didn’t remember ever being this happy in life. Sherlock was loathe to be on a plane as much time as he’d spent in them in the time he’d been gone from John. But this was vacation, this was John with him. This was everything he’d needed and not known until John showed him.

He relaxed back against the seat. Sherlock rubbed his thumb over John’s hand. He leaned in and stole another kiss, unable to resist. The last few months had ground them down to nubs. Sherlock intended to fix all of that on this trip.

John drank his wine down and spent the rest of the short flight holding Sherlock’s hand and drifting in and out of sleep. Remarkably, the roll through baggage and customs was easy and without a hitch, and the hired car was warm and pleasant. He held Sherlock’s hand in the back seat, watching the countryside roll by them, glad Sherlock was fluent enough for them both in the language. 

He’d booked them a beautiful cottage overlooking the sea. Quaint and picturesque enough for Sherlock to mock to his heart’s content. He’d had to bodily threaten Mycroft a few times to ensure they were not monitored, spending an absurd amount of money for the trip and not at all giving a damn. 

He stood at the road with Sherlock as the driver unloaded their bags, listening to the sea just on the other side of the cliff face, breathing deep the cold, saline air before smiling at Sherlock and arching a brow. “What do you think?” 

Sherlock leaned against John. “It’s perfect.” He gazed down at him, “You are perfect.” He meant it too. This was more than he’d ever hoped for. More than he’d thought possible when he’d taken that step off St. Bart’s. His hand came up and he pulled John to him, kissing him again. Sherlock couldn’t help it. When John had unlocked everything inside him it just kept coming. He was drawn to John over and over again.

“I dreamt of this, you know? The sound of the sea and you. Over and over again”

John smiled at him, humming to himself happily. He’d not expected Sherlock to openly react so well and he was more than pleased. He pulled back and tugged at Sherlock’s hand as the driver took their bags inside the small house, overrun with climbing vines that lingered even in the winter. 

He pulled Sherlock along to the cliff face, “I’ve stared at this on Google Earth for so long I have to see it,” he said as he pulled them more to the side and away from the road, the sea stretching endlessly to their left, the cottage to the right until he found it with a noise of triumph. There was a particularly long stretch of cliff face that jettied out, more than thick enough to hold several men, overlooking the sea below, thick with trees and high grass. 

He moved them into the thick of it, right up to the edge, the most genuine smile he’d held for a long time on his face as he pushed his hands in his pockets, breeze upsetting his hair, eyes closed as he breathed deep. 

Sherlock gazed out over the sea. He was quiet as the wind buffeted them, running up the cliff face, waves chasing it. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again to look out over everything. “I kept dreaming of these colors, of you. How did you know?”

Sherlock’s arms went around John’s waist, tucking him close. His chin rested on John’s shoulder as he stared out at everything. His chest felt too tight as the moment overwhelmed him. John had an uncanny ability to suck him under, make him spill emotions he still sometimes felt incapable of.

John smiled as he brought a hand up to fold over Sherlock’s at his hip, the cold making his nose burn, savoring the solid form of Sherlock at his back. “I didn’t,” he said in response, pleased with himself. He’d honestly thought…”I never expected to come here with you with a return ticket in my pocket, never expected to see this.” 

His other hand slid up into Sherlock’s curls, his gloved palm covering Sherlock’s ear, leather wrapped fingers running along his scalp. He remained like that for a moment more before tilting his head back and to the side, catching Sherlock in for a kiss, pressing into it everything he could manage, overwhelmed suddenly at their current reality. 

Sherlock returned the kiss, holding John closer on the edge of the cliff. It was full of promises Sherlock intended to keep. When he finally drew away his voice was rough, “It’s cold out here. Is there a fireplace in this cabin you’ve whisked me away to? If so, I have plans for in front of it.”

John’s shiver had nothing at all to do with the cold as he pulled Sherlock in for a deeper kiss, lingering, taking his time with the man before letting him go. “‘Course there is a fireplace. No staff, meals delivered though.” He smiled and took one last glance at the sea for then, dragging Sherlock back through the trees, smiling at the smoke rising up over the house. The car and driver were gone and he paused at the door and smiled up at Sherlock, hoping it was as beautiful inside as the pictures had promised. 

\---

He stepped inside, the gentle undercurrent of cinnamon wrapping around the scent of the wood burning fireplace. He glanced around as he tugged his coat off, hanging it on the rack, the narrow wood floorboards creaking gently under his feet. It was cozy inside, plenty of natural lighting, squashy armchairs and plush sofas in the sitting room, a crackling fire going, several fine bottles of wine chilling in an ice bucket on the little table there. He turned back and smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock chewed on his lip, gathering his nerve. He’d done an exorbitant amount of reading and web searching while John had been recovering. During therapy sessions when he wasn’t needed and pints with Greg. He pulled out of his coat and suit jacket. Sherlock toed out of his shoes. He unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt.

He was grace and elegance as he crossed the room to John. He licked his lips as he slowly sank to his knees in front of him. His eyes never leaving John’s face. “I love you. I know that our relationship has not been anything remotely resembling normal and that this is, unusual… But if you’ll have me, I’d like to be yours.” Sherlock swallowed, hoping desperately John would not push him away. He continued softly. “I’m inexperienced, we’re still finding our way, but I- I love you and you’ve always had some control over me, my actions… hauling me out of self-destructive patterns and habits. So this is me giving that to you, if you want it.”

John had been shocked in place as Sherlock went to his knees. He stared down at him, listening while holding his breath, taking in every single detail he could and committing it to memory. When Sherlock went quiet John exhaled slowly and smiled at him gently. “I always keep telling myself that one day I’m going to be a step ahead of you.” He shook his head as he reached into his pocket, heart racing, warmth spreading through his chest. His free hand reached out and sank into Sherlock’s hair, leaning in to brush their lips together. “Of course I want you, all of you, I could never stand to let you go,” he said warmly against Sherlock’s lips. 

He let Sherlock’s hair go, easing back and reaching down, plucking Sherlock’s hand up in his, pulling his fist from his pocket. He pressed his curled fingers to Sherlock’s palm, a slight tremor of nerves in his hand as he dropped the metal there, leaving behind the thin, bubbled chain of his military tags, a single titanium ring looped on the chain atop the pressed metal with John’s name and blood type, religious affiliation, unit, still bent from the round.

He stepped back and gave Sherlock a moment, chewing on his lip. “Take whatever time you’d like. I love you.”

Sherlock gazed at the tags, the ring. He looked up at John, wonder written across his face. He hadn’t expected that. Sherlock moved to his feet, tags clutched in his hand as he threw his arms around John. He kissed him hard, his answer evident, no time needed. He pressed as close as he could to John, a million emotions, all of them good, surging through him.

He needed John like he needed air. He wanted to keep and be kept by John for the rest of forever.

John could hardly breathe as Sherlock kissed him, pressing closer, his heart racing and chest bursting with elation. This had happened much, much faster than he’d anticipated, the pair of them hardly getting in the door before they were confessing devotion. 

He pulled Sherlock down with him, taking them to their knees, one hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other in his hair. Nothing hurt, nothing ached, his body was mended and now his heart felt the first touch of soothing peace in a very long time. He made a desperate, wonderful sound into Sherlock’s mouth, clinging to him hard. 

Sherlock had thought about this the entire trip, now that it was here he could hardly believe it. He couldn’t keep his hands off of John. His movements were desperate as he tugged at John’s shirt. He wanted to touch his skin, reassure himself John was real, that he hadn’t retreated into his head in some drug fueled haze somewhere.

Sherlock whimpered loudly, a plea against John’s lips. “Need… I don’t know I need you. Need this. Can’t think.” Sherlock had calmed his mind finally while they were recovering, less likely to his outbursts, people weren’t as big of a threat. But John, John tore everything away from him in this moment. All he could see and feel was John.

John pulled back as Sherlock scattered in his arms. He swept his eyes over the man and took a deep breath, twining his fingers tight in Sherlock’s hair and pulling with just enough force to catch his attention. His voice was loving, soft as he whispered to him. “Stop. Breathe. Wait.” 

He brushed his lips to Sherlock’s temple, knowing he could fix this. He stood up, tugging lightly at Sherlock’s hair before letting go, taking a step back to begin slowly peeling out of his clothes. He got down to his trousers, shoes set beside the fire out of the way, socks next to them, before padding back over to Sherlock on the lush rug. 

He crouched in front of Sherlock and leaned in, pressing another kiss to his lips as his fingers went to the row of buttons, slowly divesting Sherlock of his shirt, standing again to go drape it over the arm of a plush chair. He moved back to stand in front of Sherlock, sliding his fingers into Sherlock’s hair again, slowly kneeling down in front of him again, leaning in to kiss him, pressing their chests together with a sigh of pleasure, one arm sliding across Sherlock’s shoulders. 

Sherlock let out a small whimper against the kiss, relaxing into John. His arms went around him, still desperately clutching the chain. He hadn’t let it go, even when John took his shirt. He thought somewhere in the back of his mind he ought to be doing something with it. 

He slowly drew back looking at John, settled again as much as he could be. “I’ve always wanted you.”

John put a hand on Sherlock’s chest to push him gently off his knees, down to his arse, reaching out and covering Sherlock’s fist with one hand, using the other to pluck the chain away from him. “I’ve hidden these away since I cleaned them. Been such a long time,” he said as he unhooked the clasp, pulling the ring free, locking the chain again. He pushed the chain into Sherlock’s left hand, keeping hold of the ring, “I don’t want you to wear them, I just want you to have them. I...not brought me any luck, they just...literally a part of me,” he tapped the indented, torn corner of one and then touched the webbed scar on his shoulder, “rest of it’s in here.” 

He then held up the ring before making a fist around it. “Titanium. Strongest metal we have. Makes me think of you. Had to guess your size. You’d said...said you wanted to wear something. I- I love you desperately, Sherlock.” He held the ring out for him, watching to see what Sherlock wanted done with it. 

Sherlock held out his left hand, “Wherever it will fit.” His hand shook lightly, wanting this more than he could have ever thought possible. His right hand gripped the tags tightly, knowing exactly where they would go. The inside left breast pocket of his coat. There they’d stay, right over his heart.

Sherlock watched John, all the paperwork in the world didn’t matter. John was his and he was John’s. This was more than anyone could define.

John leaned in and kissed him as he took Sherlock’s hand and boldly tested his ring finger, relaxing as the polished metal slid easily on, nearly perfectly sized. He let go of Sherlock’s hand and sank his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him in for a slow, possessive, brilliant kiss. He worked over Sherlock’s lips carefully, savoring him, humming happily against Sherlock before leaning back and watching him, smirking with his own clever secret, hardly believing he’d pulled one over on the man, waiting for the right time to reveal it. 

Sherlock looked down to the ring on his finger. He wiggled his fingers in the firelight, watching the ring catch it. He took in a slow, deep breath, still reeling from the kiss. His gaze moved back up to John and he smiled. “Brilliant. I don’t tell you often enough. Amazing really.”

He was settled again, completely, everything evening out in his mind to a low thrum of want. He wanted John, needed him, but it was no longer the desperate rush it had been. This he could manage to think with.

John picked up Sherlock’s hand, running his thumb over the metal. “Suits you,” he said gently, enjoying the almost-black shine of the metal. He looked up to Sherlock, licking his lip, just taking it in. He could hardly believe they were here, doing this, whole and complete. “Christ, I love you.”

A true, rare smile broke across Sherlock’s face. “I love you too. So much. We made it. We did. We made it, John. The two of us against the world and we made it.” There were no words that could explain how he felt about this. It was simply beyond description.

John reached out and pulled Sherlock to him, thunking down to sit cross-legged as he pulled Sherlock into his arms, turning the man on his back, leaning down to kiss him slowly. He dropped a foot to the floor, knee up to help cradle Sherlock to him, his free hand sliding down Sherlock’s chest, fingers expertly mapping him, attuned from his time without his sight. 

“God, but it’s been hard to keep my hands off you these last months,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips, having been under strict order to leave off rigorous activity. Mark had very firmly told John no sex, wanting to ensure the significant risk to John’s brain was well under control before letting him be anything close to active. The stairs up to their flat was the most he’d been allowed. 

His fingers kept up their calm movements on Sherlock’s chest and he hummed, sweeping Sherlock into another possessive kiss. 

Sherlock moaned against the kiss, his arms wrapping around John as best they could. He reacted to John beautifully. The man could draw sounds out of him with light touches and kissed. Sherlock whimpered as he gazed up at him when the kiss drew to a close. “It was so hard not to throw myself down and beg you to touch me. I- Christ, only your health and Mark’s warning us off kept me from it. It was-” Sherlock shook his head.

“I had to go upstairs sometimes. Sit and meditate. It’s why I would disappear.”

John hummed happily and slid his hand up along the side of Sherlock’s neck, running a nail over Sherlock’s pulse, tracing his finger in the same shape as the scar that laid across his own neck from the surgery. “Hmm, well I’m quite open and available for both begging and touching,” he said with a smirk, his voice dropped low and warm. He licked his lip and gently wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s throat. 

Sherlock let out a needy moan, his head tilting slightly for John, exposing his throat further. “Please, John. Don’t make me wait any longer. It’s not fair. We’re here and it’s just us and you’re free and…” He let out a soft whimper. His hand wrapped around John’s wrist, holding to him, wanting everything and anything John wanted to give him.

John smiled at him and let go of his neck, licking his lip and whispering in soft, deep Pashto, “Up with you then, out of your clothes, back to me on your knees.” He eased Sherlock up out of his lap and turned his back to the fire, watching Sherlock with a calm, easy smile.

Sherlock rose to his feet. He shed his clothes slowly, moving for John. He was undressed, clothes folded to the side. He moved through the firelight and back to John. Sherlock went to his knees gracefully. His back was straight, head up, eyes down. He splayed his hands on his knees, relishing the feel of the ring on his finger.

John moved to sit on the hearth for both comfort and advantage of height, watching Sherlock and shaking his head. The man was beautiful. “You’ve been reading,” he said softly, reaching out with two fingers, running them down the side of Sherlock’s face, “we don’t have to do this like that if you’d rather not, make up our own rules.” He tipped his fingers under Sherlock’s chin and pulled him in for a swift, soft kiss. “Though, if this is what you want, I’m more than happy with that as well.”

Sherlock leaned into John lightly, “Read quite a lot of material. Some of it is utter rubbish. But I rather like this. At least to start with. It’s comforting. I believe making up our own rules will be the only way to go, but… this position is nice, comfortable for a while. I held it for a half hour while you were out with Greg one night… Very nearly fell asleep. If you hadn’t texted asking if I wanted Thai.” He actually blushed. Sherlock had been on his knees by the door, testing the position. He’d have been asleep on his knees waiting on John.

“You… oh fuck me that’s hot,” John breathed, the mental image trapping the air in his lungs for a moment. He exhaled and looked down at Sherlock, sliding his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, gentle for a moment before tightening his grip. “Never in a million years thought I’d get to see you on your knees. For me. Christ.” He tipped Sherlock’s head back slightly, just to see if Sherlock would allow the handling. 

Sherlock moaned softly, head tilting for John. Christ yes this is what he wanted. He’d still lead John merrily about London, snap at him not to be an idiot, and likely never clean the kitchen table… but this, John in control of him, the undercurrent always there. His ring on Sherlock’s finger. Yes. This is what Sherlock needed, craved. “I belong to you, John. I always have. Just as you belong to me.”

John smirked at Sherlock and shook his head, “You brush right along the edge of it don’t you? Right up along the edge.” John hummed to himself as he pulled Sherlock’s head back further, leaning in to his exposed neck, grazing his teeth over the skin before whispering to him, “I wonder how much it will take to push you over.” 

He closed his mouth over Sherlock’s neck, holding tight to his hair, sucking a mark up and laving at the skin. 

The sounds John drew from Sherlock were numerous. He whined and whimpered, head tilting further for John. He begged beautifully for him not to stop touching him. “Please, gods, _please_ don’t stop. I’m yours.” Sherlock was desperate for John to touch him more, touch him everywhere. Sherlock’s cock was already hard and leaking, images of John pinning him flitting through his mind.

John slowly pulled away from Sherlock, keeping a hand in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him forward as John leaned back, nearly taking him off his knees before letting him go, simply demonstrating his control over him. He hummed happily and swept his eyes over Sherlock’s body, “Christ, Sherlock, _Christ_.” 

He stood up, leaving Sherlock where he was, walking away from the fire and slowly stripping out of his trousers and pants, draping them over the side of the sofa before turning around and looking at the lines of Sherlock’s back, licking his lips at the man’s perfect posture. “God help me,” he whispered in Pashto, coming up behind Sherlock, scrubbing a hand into his hair and pulling tight. He let his eyes fall closed on the image of the man in ropes and groaned to himself, pulling tight on his hair. 

Sherlock watched John undress hungrily, musing to himself that he’d never understood that phrase until just that moment. He moaned as John sank his fingers into his hair and pulled again. Sherlock let himself lean back against John’s legs slightly. His eyes fell shut, breathing quickened.

“Gods, please, _yes_.” He couldn’t articulate much beyond that. John had him. John had him in every way possible. Sherlock shuddered as the thought went through him.

He whimpered softly, “John, sir, I love you.”

John pulled on him, watching Sherlock’s reaction to something more sharp, more aggressive. He licked his lip and spoke to Sherlock in Pashto, narrowly containing himself as he spoke, “I want you more than anything else, Christ how I want you,” as he slid his hand lower, wrapping around the back of Sherlock’s neck. “You can touch me, anything you want,” he murmured in the same tongue, shifting closer, sinking his other hand in Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock’s hands came up reaching back behind him. He gripped one of John’s hips in his hand. He turned his head, tongue darting out and dragging the length of John’s cock. He moaned as he did it. Sherlock shifted some, wanton movements. His other hand ran down John’s side.

John’s knees nearly went out on him, tugging back on Sherlock’s hair as he walked around him, “Tease me later, oh god right now,” he stuttered as he pulled Sherlock’s hair, edging him forward, bumping his cock against Sherlock’s lips, “oh god please,” he whispered. His teeth were clenched tight, losing his patience for tact, just needing Sherlock nearly more than he needed air. 

Sherlock moaned, his left hand wrapping around John’s hip, other around his cock. He stroked the base as he sank his mouth over him. Sherlock sucked, running his tongue along the underside. He was moaning as he sucked. His hand slipped from John’s cock and went around him. 

He sank his fingers into John’s arse cheek, squeezing and kneading lightly as he slid further down John’s cock with each bob of his head. He wanted to hear John’s praise and moans.

John swore colorfully and in both of his languages, keeping himself still as Sherlock sank down on him. He was careful not to pull tight on his hair, keeping himself from thrusting against Sherlock. His hips twitched forward, one hand dropping over Sherlock’s at his hip, hooking their fingers together.

Sherlock moaned against John. He finally pulled back, looking up at John. He licked swollen lips. Sherlock’s words were a purr as he spoke, “John, please fuck my mouth.” He bit his lip, looking at him from under his long eyelashes. Pure sin… and he knew it.

John’s breathing stuttered out as he swore, “Fuck, oh _fuck_ ,” he breathed, groaning, fisting his fingers tight in Sherlock’s hair as a shadow passed over his face. He pulled back out of Sherlock’s hand, still keeping their fingers laced at his hip, and leaned down and over as he tipped Sherlock’s head back, lips ghosting just shy of touching Sherlock’s.

“You forgot the ‘sir,’” he purred at him, nipping at Sherlock’s lower lip before regaining his posture, arching a brow at the man on his knees. 

Sherlock pouted up at John, “Please John, sir. Please fuck my mouth.” He licked his lips again and then bit his lower lip. He was wildly turned on, the reaction to John’s words obvious. Sherlock’s breathing was slightly ragged, hand in John’s gripping tighter. Sherlock whimpered and licked his lips again.

“You are sin, you know that? Sin.” 

John nodded to him, brushing Sherlock’s lips, holding his head where he wanted it with the hand in his hair. He did not wait as Sherlock began to open, pressing in with intent, slow enough not to hurt him. Sherlock played an impressive part, knew the lines, was obviously a natural, but learning and _doing_ were two different things, and John wanted this to be nothing but wonderful for him. 

Sherlock let his tongue run along John, his lips curling around his teeth to protect him. He took in a slow deep breath. Sherlock watched John from his place on the floor. He knew John was taking it easy on him. His eyes closed for a moment as he moaned, suddenly struck with the thought of how this must look.

“Oh god you are going to be the death of me,” John growled in Pashto, drawing back out slowly, his own head tipping back before looking down to Sherlock again. “Oh Christ I’m so glad my eyes are working,” he clipped off in a groan, pressing back in a bit faster, one hand on top of Sherlock’s head, holding tight to his hair, not quite pulling. He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and began to set up a slow building pace, shallow enough to only rarely obstruct Sherlock’s breathing when he began to lose himself, swearing and groaning all the while. 

Sherlock’s hands merely gripped John’s hips, not preventing him from doing anything, just hanging on. He was moaning, hips bucking up occasionally. A particularly lewd thought caught him and he groaned, hand dropping from John’s hip to squeeze himself nearly painfully at the base. Christ, he’d never thought something like this could be enough to very nearly set him over the edge by itself.

John pulled back sharply as Sherlock dropped a hand to himself, groaning and stepping back, letting Sherlock go, hands on his knees as he caught his breath, “Fuck, don’t you dare, oh god,” he managed between breaths, finally looking up at Sherlock. 

He made a distressed sound and shook his head, openly whining, “There are so many things I want to do to you that I can’t decide,” a smirk slowly playing at his lips. He moved over to the sofa and wrenched two massive pillows off, dropping one directly in front of the hearth, the other resting physically against the brick. He pointed to the floor just in front of the pillow, not on it. “I want you right there.” 

He darted out of the room then, rushing to their bedroom, hardly looking at anything other than the bags. He swore as he dug for his kit and returned a minute later, looking to see if Sherlock had obeyed him. 

It had taken Sherlock a minute to be able to move. His breathing was ragged and he was so close to the edge it was painful. He finally was able to move towards the pillows. He settled himself down on his knees in front of them.

When John came back Sherlock’s hands were splayed on his knees. He spoke, voice lower than normal. “I was desperately trying to prevent it… Just so you’re aware, sir.” There was no sarcasm there, but there was a small smile on his face.

John licked his lips and moved to Sherlock. His gait wasn’t as steady as it used to be even on a good day, but when he was this aroused? He had no chance. He dropped down to the cushions, stretching out his hand to dig his fingers into his ankle for a moment, having been on it too long at once. All the while he swept his eyes over Sherlock, speaking to him softly. 

“I know you know this, but you are absolutely the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. You’d not...it would not be the same, without you in there. Gah, I’m not making sense. I- if another mind had your body- Christ, never mind.” He shook his head and ran a hand over his neck, fingers digging at the pinked scar for a moment before stretching both his legs out, getting comfortable on the pillows. 

“I love you. I- it’s not enough to describe how I feel, there are not words for it, not enough space in my chest for it, I love you. I want to do this with you.” He opened his hand and set a small bottle of oil to the side, in Sherlock’s clear view. “I won’t hurt you, you are free to tell me no. I love you, I just want to make you happy.”

Sherlock chuckled softly, “You wouldn't be attracted to this.” He was lewd when he ran his hands over himself, a groan escaping him as he brushed along his cock. His eyes met John’s again and he continued, “If I were not also, how have you put it? Brilliant, amazing, astounding… oh, I’m sure there are more descriptors you’ve used my darling sir.”

Sherlock’s smile had turned wicked, “I love you. I want you… have done so for quite some time. Had more than one opportunity while I was gone. Didn’t. I’m not for anyone else. Never meant to be for anyone else.”

“You utter prat. You’ve missed my point entirely but your head is clearly too inflated to hear me right now. Come here, I love you, Christ you’re impossible.” He reached out and began to pull Sherlock into his lap, nudging Sherlock’s legs so that he was straddling John, the thick cushions beneath him lending John a bit of height. He pressed Sherlock’s hips down on his own upper thighs and leaned forward, abruptly catching a nipple between his teeth, gentle, flicking his tongue over it and closing his lips down around him as he reached for the oil. His groan reverberated across Sherlock’s chest as he slicked himself, dropping a slick hand between Sherlock’s legs, sliding his fingers along Sherlock’s arse. 

John pulled his mouth away and slipped an arm around Sherlock’s lower back, circling him with a slick fingertip, watching his reaction. 

Sherlock’s breathing was full of whimpers and moans. He gave a small shudder. His hands came to John’s chest, both splayed against him. His voice was hoarse, “Stop… just a moment.” He struggled to catch his breath correctly already from John’s ministrations. “I d-din’t. I didn’t miss your point. I really did not. I need you to know that. I love you. I trust you. I want this.” 

Sherlock leaned in kissing John, trying to push everything he was feeling into it. When he finally drew back he was whispering. “There are not enough words in all the languages I know to tell you how I feel mo ghràdh. I need you to know that. Need you to know that I will try forever to express it with my mind, body, down to my very soul I will try to show you.”

John had pulled his hands away faster than he’d moved since any form of combat when Sherlock had asked him to stop, his heart hammering against his chest as he watched Sherlock catch his breath, aching with regret, mind ground to a halt until the man started to speak again. 

He leaned in as Sherlock began to kiss him, letting Sherlock lead, his heart melting at Sherlock’s words, at the very least recognizing the Gaelic endearment. His hands were gentle as he carefully touched Sherlock’s sides, not at all restricting him, simply being present, his heart still beating in his throat, more cautious. He shifted slightly under Sherlock, aching for him, watching him closely. 

Sherlock gazed at John. His voice was low, the hint of a tease under it, “Now, if you do not go back to what you were doing I will be forced to misbehave right here in your lap, sir.” He rolled his hips down against John, making sure they slid along one another. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, head tilting back slightly as he did.

John had half a mind to flip the damn man to the floor and put him right down in the place John wanted him, his fingers tight on the sides of Sherlock’s hips, making him still. The scare had robbed him of his nearly painful interest, though his mind was still right there. He growled at Sherlock and grabbed one of his hands dragging it behind Sherlock’s back, holding on to Sherlock’s wrist at the small of Sherlock’s back, the other slipping between Sherlock’s legs, intentionally dragging his forearm along Sherlock’s bullocks, slipping teasingly over him before circling. 

“Is this what you want?” He asked with a low rumble. 

Sherlock was squirming in John’s lap, trying to get him to stop teasing, “John, please.” his voice was a gasp. “Please, sir. Yes.” He whimpered as he struggled against John, not actually trying to get away. He was trying to find friction anywhere. He rocked down against John as best he could. Sherlock was whimpering again as he looked at John, begging with his body more than he was with his mouth.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s wrist at the small of Sherlock’s back as he slowly began to press in, only to the first knuckle of his pointer, circling repetitively, gently moving shallow inside of Sherlock to allow him adjust to the feel. “Have you done this to yourself,” he asked breathlessly, hardly believing he had any portion of himself inside Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock’s head dropped back and he moaned as John pressed his finger in. “Not since I was younger.” His words were barely there, moaned more than spoken. “More, please more.” Sherlock didn’t want to admit that his sessions handling himself simply hadn’t lasted long enough to go there since meeting John. He inevitably came violently over his own hand before he could progress that far when thinking about John.

John was entirely, utterly focused exclusively on Sherlock. He began to slide his finger into him deeper, slow, moving back slightly before pressing forward. There would surely come a day when John wanted Sherlock to feel him when he sat down, but this first time… this first time would be perfection for Sherlock if it was the last thing John ever did. He let Sherlock’s wrist go long enough to grab the oil again, adding it to the palm of his hand after some careful maneuvering, drawing his finger out of Sherlock long enough to slick it down better. He immediately pressed back into Sherlock, moving back into him carefully, following the stutter of Sherlock’s hips as he recaptured his wrist. 

“Tell me if you tire in this position,” he whispered, leaning in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock had his head tilted back, not bothering to muffle his moans and whimpers at all. He made a small sound of acknowledgement to John. He’d almost forgotten what this felt like. His fumbling methods as a teen and young adult had nothing on the feeling of knowing it was John penetrating him. He was mumbling half in English, half in Pashto, sticking to the two languages John knew for the moment, still with it enough to do that much.

John worked slowly, carefully, hardly able to restrain himself with Sherlock’s sounds as he took his time getting a single finger entirely into him, working him slowly with the intent just to stretch, to let him adjust to the feel before his clinical mind clicked into gear and he hummed at Sherlock, gripping the man’s wrist and pulling down so that Sherlock was forced to bend over John and splay his palm flat on the floor. John moved swiftly, easily finding his prostate, sliding the tip of his finger over it with a hum of want, rolling the firm tissue under the pad of his finger slowly. 

Sherlock’s fingers curled against the floor as he let out a soft cry. His voice panted the air blue with every language he knew. His head was bowed and he shifted. This was entirely too much. He could barely control himself thinking about John, in his hands? Sherlock finally bit out, “Fucking, _Christ_ , John…” He gave a soft mewl. “Never going to be able to be anything more than a rutting teenager in your hands.”

“Good, just how I want you,” John replied, smiling to himself as he carefully began to slide in a second finger, the first still rolling circles around Sherlock’s prostate, occasionally making direct contact, slow and steady as he moved inside of him, careful to keep from rushing his body. 

His fingers gripped tight to Sherlock’s wrist, groaning any time Sherlock flexed around his other hand, focused and careful until he’d managed to seat the second. “More?” He asked, breathing the question. 

Sherlock was whimpering as he pushed back against Johns hand. He looked half wrecked already, “God please, yes. John, _sir_.” The form of address was a plea in and unto itself. He was desperate to have John fucking him. Logically, somewhere, he knew it was prudent, knew he’d appreciate it, but right in that moment all he wanted was to beg John to just fuck me already.

John hummed at Sherlock as he added a third finger, moving more now with the intent to stretch him, working his fingers in and out much faster, scissoring and circling, moving the ring of muscle, loosening him up. He rolled his hips up as the slide of his fingers slowly became easier, less resistance, listening to Sherlock above him, nearly losing his resolve to take this slow and steady. 

When he was sure he could add a fourth, and tested, he finally drew his hands away from Sherlock, letting his wrist go. He pulled back enough to look at him, wrapping a slick hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down for a possessive, desperate kiss before breaking away. “I love you,” he whispered as he budged Sherlock up with a hand under his arse, making him go high up on his knees, taking a swift moment to slick himself once more before lining up and holding himself in place, one hand on Sherlock’s hip. He would let Sherlock decide how fast he wanted to sink down. 

Sherlock was half-gone already. He couldn’t think anymore. He just wanted more of John and when John pulled away he nearly cried until he was righted and realized what was going on.

His hands went to John’s shoulders. His kiss was rough and brief as he started pressing himself down against John. He drew away to press his forehead against John’s, trying to concentrate on his breathing as he sank down over him. Sherlock was murmuring how much he loved John in between rather lewd phrases about just how good John felt sliding into him.

When he was finally fully seated on John he panted, pressed down against him. Sherlock had an almost dazed look to him and he finally mumbled, “Utterly ruined me for everything and anyone else. Gods I love you.”

John was hardly breathing as Sherlock sank down on him, clipped curses and desperate restraint all that saved him from himself. He looked at Sherlock when the man was fully on him, sweeping his eyes over the whole scene, his mind helpfully supplying that Sherlock had never done this with anyone else. 

“I- Christ- I love you, _Christ_ ,” he grit his teeth and waited for any suggestion of movement from Sherlock, the heat of him overwhelming. He wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s hips and slowly arched up into him, rolling his own hips under Sherlock, giving him the smallest bit of friction. His feet had come up, planted firmly on the ground, knees bent at Sherlock’s back to give him leverage. He nudged Sherlock up, wanting space to rock up into him. 

Sherlock groaned as he raised himself for John. A low whimper escaped him. His arms hooked around John’s neck. He was cursing softly at the feeling of John moving inside him. Sherlock watched John, part of him not truly believing it was happening. 

Before John could move though, Sherlock moved against him a few times. The moans that erupted from him were something he’d never heard from himself. Everything he’d done to himself, even the few things John had done... everything paled in comparison so much as to fade to white.

John gripped Sherlock’s hips hard, fingers pressing deep into the skin as he rocked up to meet him, following Sherlock’s movements, letting him carry on as he was in the moment. Sherlock’s baritone mixed with sex was nearly more than John could endure. He pressed his back to the cushion, letting them carry on as they were for a few minutes before he could no longer restrain himself, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s lower back, burying his face in Sherlock’s chest and working into him in earnest. 

Sherlock was a symphony of sound. His head tilted back as and he hung on as John worked into him, gasping and moaning his pleasure. Nothing existed outside of the two of them. Nothing mattered. Sherlock’s focus was on John. 

He begged, plead in every language he knew, curses of pleasure on the heels of them all. He couldn’t think or breathe properly and it was wonderful.

John was right on the edge as he dropped a hand between them, fingers still slick with oil, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock and moving his fist in tandem with his hips, rocking hard into him, sweating and panting for breath, more turned on than he could ever remember being. He scraped his teeth over a nipple, mouthing along Sherlock’s chest as he thrust hard into him, trying to drive Sherlock over first. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, Sherlock, Christ I want to watch you break. Please, Jesus, oh god,” he muttered, whimpering in an effort to stave off, breaking away from Sherlock’s chest to look at him, wanting to watch. 

John’s pleading and hand combined with what he was already doing to him broke Sherlock’s brain and every other part of him down to nothing but pleasure. He tensed, gripping John, most likely painfully. He tried to keep his eyes on John but failed as he came spectacularly. For a few woozy seconds he was quite sure the orgasm was going to render him unconscious. John’s name was on his lips. English gone, Sherlock babbled in Gaelic at him, one word on his lips other than John’s name. _Maighstir_.

He made out his name as Sherlock came hard over his hand and lost it, tumbling right over the edge with a shout, pressed deep into Sherlock, not breathing at all as it tore through him. He shook his head and pulled at the air after a moment, head tipped back, fingers relaxing after digging hard into Sherlock. 

He was panting as he pulled Sherlock down to rest against him, gasping and boneless, his mind calm and placid in the static white noise of post orgasmic bliss. 

Sherlock leaned in, burying his face against John’s shoulder. He panted harshly. Sherlock’s head was blissfully quiet as he started to come down. He couldn’t have thought about anything if he’d wanted to. A moan escaped him as he nuzzled against John’s neck. He whimpered and closed his eyes, content to just lay there against John.

John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock and let his head fall back against the cushions, groaning as he fizzled out and down into the blissful fog. “Oh, I love you,” he whispered, shivering for a moment before going completely lax. 

He lay there panting, trying to catch his breath for a long while, petting his fingertips down Sherlock’s back, humming low in his chest from time to time. When they began to cool, he finally whispered, “Up with you, love, let’s have a shower.” 

Sherlock slowly pushed up and stood on wobbly knees. He straightened, steadying himself. He held out a hand. "Come on then you." He smiled softly. Sherlock hummed to himself. His body was thrumming with the endorphins. He gave a softer grin when he realized what he'd been saying.

"Mm a shower with you sounds delightful." 

John budged him up and just reached out a hand to him, his leg already warning him, daring him to push it to hard. He let Sherlock haul him up and he wrapped his arms around the man, smiling as he pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s chest. “Stop being so tall,” he whispered fondly as he pulled away, brushing a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles. 

He turned then and made his way to the cozy bedroom, a massive four poster somehow crammed into the smallish space, warm, sweeping curtains and another fireplace all tight packed in the room without it feeling too cluttered. The sound muffled like a library, lost in the deep, rich fabrics. He moved around the side of the bed and pushed into the lav, smiling wide. It was nearly the size of the bedroom, a separate, massive claw foot tub under the window, candles in various stages of melt lining the sill, ivy crawling up the glass on the outside and the sea visible just over the cliffs. 

There was a stand alone shower behind frosted glass just to the side, a built in bench with soft polished wood lining it, the shower head tucked into the ceiling dead center. He moved over, toes sinking into the warmer shaggy mat off the cold tiles, turning on the taps. It was then that he noticed a room warmer at the light switch and he clicked that on, the soft whirr of a fan preceding the gentle blow of heated air around them. 

John stepped into the falling water and closed his eyes, smiling wide. “Getting this in our flat, fucking wonderful,” he said from his place under the vertical downpour, reaching out for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock had followed along after tucking John's tags into his coat pocket. He stepped in with John, wrapping his arms around him. He bent enough to brush a kiss to the top of John's head. "I love you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his face to the water. He was actually, truly at ease. Sherlock gazed back down at John after a moment. "Well, haven't a clue why I waited that long, but I'm glad I did."

John slotted in close to Sherlock, tucking his head to Sherlock’s chest, closing his eyes and leaning into him. He was glad he’d picked a more seated position, already tired. He stayed that way for a few minutes before stepping back, grabbing soap and a cloth and spinning Sherlock away from him, sliding the cloth over his back. 

“Nothing hurts, yea?” He asked gently, wanting to be sure he’d been careful enough. 

Sherlock hummed in content. "I am well. No pain. Well and thoroughly fucked... but no pain." There was a soft, lewd purr when he cursed. Sherlock grinned at the wall of the shower. "Did I live up to your expectations?" There was a small hint of uncertainty in Sherlock's voice under the jest. Momentarily concerned his virginity, despite his research, could be a hindrance.

John paused in his movements, the cloth resting at Sherlock’s hips, hearing the undercurrent louder than the humor. Sherlock was truly an open book if one took the time to look below the surface layer of his behavior. 

He draped the cloth over a handle and gently pushed Sherlock forward, still in the warmth of the spray, and turned him to sit on the wooden bench. John then looped his arms around the back of Sherlock's neck and crawled up onto his lap, straddling him, pressing their chests together and kissing him passionately. When he finally broke away, John nuzzled him and leaned back, sliding his palms over Sherlock’s head to smooth back his hair. “That was,” he dropped his eyes to Sherlock, looking at him in all seriousness, “that absolute best shag I’ve ever had. Ever. You… Christ, Sherlock, you are incredible.”

Sherlock smiled happily at John, beaming without a hint of his normal arrogance. He cleared his throat, "Well, definitely the best I've ever had. I'll look forward to holding you to that level and seeing just how creative we can be." He nuzzled John tenderly. "I have to say. I know all my railing against sentiment and..." He huffed and looked lost in thought.

He was quiet a moment before the words came tumbling out of him. "I am glad you put so much effort and thought into this vacation. I'm rather glad my first time was with you like that... It was wonderful, both the act and the setting." He looked nonplussed at his wording. "Blasted sentiment. Not good at it."

John smiled at Sherlock and swept a sodden curl behind his ear, “No one is good at it, love, that’s why there are so many hit movies about it.” He leaned in and kissed Sherlock gently, hugging him close. He was letting Sherlock shoulder move of his weight than he intended, but he decided if Sherlock wasn’t fussing at him for it, he’d not worry about it. 

“I… you-” he stopped and cleared his throat, warm water sliding over them soothing and a welcome distraction from how tight his throat suddenly was. He leaned back enough to look at Sherlock. “I’ve never had someone to help me. I’ve always had to do it on my own, heal on my own, motivate myself to keep moving. And here you’ve been right next to me. Hell, not just next to me, you’ve been standing between me and anyone who’s made even the slightest threat. I-” he shook his head and looked away from Sherlock for a moment, “I love you, I don’t know how to repay what you’ve done for me but I hope this is a start.” 

Sherlock stared at John in wonder, "You made me human. I can never repay that. You made me realize that I am capable of true feelings. That I am not a freak. I love you." He cleared his throat. "I perceive most everything as a threat. When it comes to you... Mark was right. Feral is apt."

John shifted so that he was more comfortably pressed against Sherlock, tucking his head down to the man’s shoulder, tracing lines on his chest where the water flowed over the muscle. “With you and I, it’s best to assume a threat than not. I’m much the same, though a bit more restrained. I- I cannot believe we are here together. It feels like...I don’t know. I wish I could physically hold it in my hand to keep it safe, if that makes any sense.” 

John moved his leg, fussing at it, twisting then to shift so that he had it more outstretched. “I could hear you, you know? I couldn’t...I didn’t know until after you walked me through most of what happened that what I was hearing was real...I had figured them hallucinations. But I could hear you. I remember…” He cleared his throat and laced their fingers together, sliding his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. “I need you to know...need you to know that the attachment to such a severe degree is not one sided. I went back because I didn’t expect to come home. I bucked so hard to them because I expected the round in my head, not my ankle. I couldn’t breathe without you, Sherlock. It’s not...it’s not one sided.”

Sherlock kissed John with an intensity he didn't know he was capable of. He dragged John as close as he could. Hand tangled in the back of John's hair and arm around his waist. He drew away and dove for John's neck, raising a line of marks down it. Sherlock bit and licked at him, marking him beautifully, claiming him. His voice was rough, breathing a bit shattered as he finally spoke again. "I am yours, body, mind, soul. I have been since the day I met you John Watson. I always will be. That we are both so wrapped up in one another is perfect to me. I will never put you in that situation again."

John was a bit breathless by the time Sherlock started speaking, licking his lip and trailing his fingers over his neck where Sherlock had all but attacked him before smiling softly at him. 

He reached down and picked up Sherlock’s hand, running his thumb over the titanium ring, incredibly glad he’d given it to him. He pressed their palms together before threading their fingers, brushing kisses to his knuckles. 

“I love you. I wish I-I just… I love you, Sherlock. I’m so fucking glad we made it here.” 

Sherlock nuzzled John's cheek and cleared his throat. "I haven't got you anything. I mean, I have, but it's not with us. I didn't bring it. You might think it stupid anyhow." Sherlock gnawed at his lip. "It- I've been composing again, accompaniment pieces." 

He muttered. "I know it's been years, I know you might not want to pick it up again, but I bought a Martin guitar. They are supposed to be some of the best..."

Sherlock looked back up. "It's silly, but if you ever do. Gods, nevermind." Sherlock was utterly flustered by that point. "I love you. I'm glad we made it too."

John leaned back and looked at Sherlock, really looked at him, thinking he’d had all of Sherlock’s sides at the very least identified. And here… here Sherlock had been _composing_ for them. “I didn’t know that you knew I played. I can’t imagine I’d be any good this many years out, but a _Martin_? Christ. You are amazing, you know that?” 

He leaned back in and kissed Sherlock softly, taking his time with him. He caught Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth and gently nipped at him before pulling back. “I um,” he said slowly, looking at Sherlock and then away, “I hope I’ve not ah, overstepped. There’s… should check your coat pockets.” He said quietly. He’d picked up the rings in a set and slipped one into Sherlock’s Belstaff at baggage claim, more than pleased with himself to have planted something on _Sherlock_. 

Sherlock arched a brow, "You put something in my coat? When? Is a Martin not a good guitar. I did do research... You bragged to that boring teacher that you used to play in Uni. That Christmas we had people round to the flat... The Molly incident."

Sherlock was anxious to go see what John had managed to plant on him. He kissed him tenderly, a million thoughts running through his mind. Sherlock loved the man in his lap more than he could have ever imagined possible

John huffed a laugh, “The Molly Incident, huh? That what we are calling it?” He kissed Sherlock again and began to ease off his lap, “A Martin is a beautiful guitar, Sherlock, I… I can’t believe you got one for me.” He tipped his face up to the falling water as he got his feet, rinsing himself clean before reaching for a towel and stepping out into the blissfully heated air. He dried off as much as he could, wrapping the towel around his hips, moving back into the bedroom to dig in his bag. A few minutes later he was dressed in dark-wash jeans, a comfortable tee, and a dark navy blue jumper, soft with much wear. He poured them both a chilled glass of wine and resettled the cushions, dropping down onto the sofa, putting his leg up and debating taking something for the slow setting ache. 

Sherlock finished and turned off the taps. He followed John humming a bit. Sherlock dressed in a pair of dark jeans. He'd promised to be somewhat casual during the vacation, and he did like the pair of jeans he had on. Sherlock pulled on a button up but left it untucked when he buttoned it. He moved out to the sitting room and grabbed his coat.

He settled in front of John on the floor for the moment, more comfortable leaning back between his legs. He slowly searched through his pockets. Oh now that was good, inside hip pocket. Sherlock pulled out the small box and smiled.

He turned, kneeling in front of John and opened the box. "John Watson stay with me. Please. A life without you in it, is no life at all." He plucked the ring from the box and held it up.

John smiled and leaned forward, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s where he held the ring and kissing him softly. He pulled back just a bit and stared at Sherlock before speaking. “I know this is probably not something you’ve considered… but I love you, and you love me, and I...I want… I intended to-” He cleared his throat and started again, “I want to marry you, Sherlock. I want the paper, I want it official, I do not want anyone to ever have a chance to take you away from me.” He was mostly thinking of Mycroft’s antics, but the statement held true. “I love you, I will never stop loving you. Please, Sherlock, will you marry me?” 

Sherlock smiled up to John, "You'll have to wait four more months, but I will happily marry you. I've got this man in control of me for another four months. He's promised I can be free at that time. He is rather gorgeous though..." He winked. "Of course I'll marry you. I love you. I want it, more than anything. But Sherlock Watson sounds utterly ridiculous, not doing it." He smirked slightly. "Married, Baker Street. Buy it from Mrs. Hudson, still pay her rent. I don't care. Let's just stay. I love our flat. I love you."

John smiled broadly at him and kissed Sherlock before holding out his hand for Sherlock to slip the ring on. “Neither of us are changing our names, Sherlock, I’d never ask it.” He kissed him again with a soft laugh and shook his head. “We’ll buy out the building, you damned wealthy man, and will give her ‘A,’ and a stipend if she needs it to live. Otherwise, aside from adding to the lav at home, I don’t see anything changing. I just want you, and I want you to have me.” 

He pulled Sherlock up to sit beside him, resting against his side, one hand splayed over Sherlock’s belly. “Can we skip the whole wedding affair though? I’m not sure I’ll ever be up for all of that.” 

Sherlock slipped the ring onto John's finger as he spoke. "Oh god no. No wedding monstrosity. Greg and Molly can witness if they want to. _We_ are wealthy. I was rather kidding about the name change. You're standing on the traditional woman's side. You're shorter." Sherlock grinned over to him.

"You have me, all of me, and I have you. For as long as the universe gives us."

John ran a finger over the ring, matching Sherlock’s, a smile on his face at the reactions this particular development would pull from their friends. He picked up his wine and handed Sherlock a glass, leaning against him in the pocket of his shoulder. “Well, if you are going to be the tall one, I’m going to use you as a pillow. Sodding leg hurts.” He rolled his neck on his shoulders slightly to try and ease the growing discomfort in his head, something he was told he’d have to deal with hereout. 

It was worth it though, all of it was worth it to stay with Sherlock. 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist and nuzzled his head."I love you." He sipped at his wine as he gazed at the fire. "Prop it up. Don't let it go bad on you. How are you feeling?" John didn't always own up to feeling bad and Sherlock had become rather adept at ferreting out when he needed to rest.

John settled his leg up on the ottoman in front of them and leaned into Sherlock, sipping at his wine. “Achy. But I’m okay. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. Calm.” He closed his eyes and hummed, soaking in the warmth of the wine, of Sherlock, of the fire. It was all wonderful perfection and he wanted to stay right where he was, his idiot body be damned. 

Sherlock hummed happily. "Good, that makes two of us." He took a deep breath as he leaned and nipped at John's ear. "This is amazing John. You are amazing. Thank you."

John finished his wine and set the glass aside, knowing that he was going down the path that ended in substantial pain at the moment. He sighed and got up, padding over to their cases and swallowing down a few pills before returning to the sofa and budging Sherlock over to the far end of it. 

“Can I just…” he said quietly, a hint of regret laced in his tone, crawling up onto the sofa and stretching out beside Sherlock, wanting to put his head in the man’s lap, laying with the crown of his head just brushing up to Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock stroked through John's hair. "In my lap, love." Sherlock let John get comfortable and went to work on his head. His fingers moved over John's head. Over the past two months they had experimented repeatedly to find massage points that helped. Sherlock used all of them.

He had John down and dozing within minutes, his fingers instantly wicking away the threatening ache. He sank into the warmth, slowly going boneless in Sherlock’s lap, incredibly grateful for the man. Sherlock watched him, happy in the knowledge they had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may or may not be a sequel in which Mycroft is an even bigger prat before getting called on it all by someone even more intimidating. It's partially written but we've been working on other projects...
> 
> It's been a crazy ride. Thanks for sticking with us. We never knew MIA would be so popular. Thank you all so very much.
> 
> You can find us on tumbler at [amphigoricsymphony.tumblr.com](http://amphigoricsymphony.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Missing in Action" by AmphigoricSymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089399) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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